Sneaking
by JayRain
Summary: King Maric was haunted after they left Redcliffe, which intrigued Cailan. These linked shorts depict a young, curious Cailan on a search for the truth about his brother, and as he grows, a search to learn more about himself and what it means to be king.
1. Sly Dog

**What began as a one-shot here or there depicting young/pre-Wardens Alistair has spun off into a beast of its own. Several users commented that they'd be curious to see more of young Cailan's reaction to that chance meeting at Redcliffe. Thus is born "Sneaking", a collection of linked shorts about Cailan's quest to find out more about the stable boy that interested his father so. While not necessary to read either "Questing Eyes" or "Second Born", it's recommended for context.**

_Sly Dog_

The kennel master was a solid man with wide shoulders and a thick neck, not unlike the Mabari hounds he was tasked with keeping. Just now he tilted his head to the side and fixed the young man before him with a quizzical stare. "You want to do… what? Pardon my impertinence, Highness."

Cailan waved the apology away with his hand and smiled even more brightly. "I wish to see to the hounds. A future king must be well-versed in the customs of his people," he said, quoting his father as smoothly as he might quote the Chant of Light. "That includes a familiarity with the hounds that mark Ferelden from the lands around it." For a moment the kennel master regarded Cailan, and the Prince could see the man's mind at work. He wanted to believe the boy, but wasn't sure how much trouble he'd be in if he didn't. Cailan fixed the man with a pleasant smile and stood, making it clear that he was not going anywhere.

The kennel master sighed. "As your Highness wishes," he said. "Though I must insist you stay away from the puppies," he added. "They're nearing the age where they may imprint, and I don't fancy having to explain a puppy to his Majesty."

Cailan's chuckle was warm as the mulled cider he'd sipped before coming out to the kennels. "No, of course not, my good man. My actions are my own," he said. But he did pull a sovereign from his pocket and slide it into the kennel master's palm. "For your silence," he added, meeting the man's surprised eyes with a meaningful stare until the kennel master nodded quickly.

The first thing that struck Cailan was the smell. He'd overheard foreign dignitaries complain that Ferelden constantly smelled of wet dog, and he'd felt a blend of curiosity and offense at that. Ferelden smelled the way a country should smell: of tilled earth and rain in the spring, of cold and wood smoke in the winter. Highever smelled of ripening orchards in the summer and the village of Redcliffe always had the tang of fish from the docks on Lake Calenhad. But wet dog?

Cailan stood uncertain in the entry of the kennels, alone but for the whines and low growls of the Mabari hounds around him. He sniffed the air, fighting to keep his nose from wrinkling, and there it was. A pungent smell somewhere between rot and mildew tingled through his nose, and Cailan was certain this scent would stand out to anyone not so completely born and bred Fereldan as he was. Or as his father was. Or…

He strode forward, trying not to grimace when his boots trod the squishy earthen floor, strewn with moldy hay. He'd purposely worn his old boots, the ones nearly worn through, that Cornelia insisted he get rid of; yet he stubbornly clung to them for expeditions like this. He'd had to stoop to a stealthy trip to the laundry to find a pair of stained breeches and a nondescript tunic, and he'd left a sovereign out where it could not be missed. He hadn't been lying when he told the kennel master that his actions were his own. He also knew the potential said actions had to get him into the worst trouble of his life, and wasn't above exchanging gold for silence.

Cailan spared only a brief glance at the pen of Mabari pups, rolling mounds of fur and paws and tiny pink tongues. He smiled, but wiped the expression away almost immediately and kept his eyes forward. Mabari hounds were scary-smart, and read facial expressions as easily as hand commands; they responded not only to commands, but even to idle conversation. He knew that even looking at a puppy just ready to imprint could result in just that. And he didn't really care to explain to his father how he'd managed to get a puppy to imprint on him, either.

As he ventured deeper into the kennels, the smell enveloped him. His eyes watered and his nose protested, but Cailan kept his step resolute. Back here the air was heavier and it was darker. Back here the older Mabari kept to their pens. They were used to nurse pups or help in training the new regiment, and when not doing that, were afforded the rest they'd earned after years in battle, like retired soldiers. A few snub noses lifted to sniff as Cailan passed; a few quizzical whines inquired about his presence. "Just visiting, if that's okay," Cailan told a grizzled dog who leapt to his feet, stubby tail wagging. The dog gave a small growl of contentment and turned around in the hay before flopping down.

At the very back of the kennel Cailan found what he was looking for. One of the pens was empty, but used for storing hay. Heaps of gold piled against the three walls. Cailan looked about, but was alone save for the dogs. And as intelligent as Mabari hounds were, they weren't about to go telling the kennel master, or worse, his father, what he was doing. Cailan got his footing on the rail of the gate and vaulted himself over.

It was supposed to be a smooth and graceful leap, but Cailan was unused to such movements and tumbled over and into the stack of hay on the other side. Rough straw ends poked his eyes and scratched his cheeks and the dust clung to his nostrils and made him sneeze as he fumbled to right himself. At last he was right side up, sitting in a Mabari pen, with straw clinging to his hair and pilfered garments.

_It's not as soft as I thought it would be_, he thought, reclining. His borrowed bed made crunching noises under his movements, and stuck into his clothing, leaving him itchy. And then he wondered what sorts of bugs or other vermin would be crawling beneath him and he very nearly vaulted back over the gate and ran out of the kennels. But he forced himself to stay there, itching in the rough straw and smelling the stink of wet dog.

Gradually he settled into the hay and it conformed to his body. Cailan was surprised to discover how warm it was, and how the clinging smells of summer and the harvest mingled with the dog smell into something that was oddly… pleasant. Nurturing. The low growls and whines of the older Mabari were a gentle song, with the faraway squeals of the puppies a rousing chorus. And then Cailan realized with a start that his eyes were closing.

Cailan sat upright and blinked the sly, pleasant drowsiness from his light blue eyes. This was absurd. He was the crown prince of Ferelden and he was about to nap in a _kennel?_ He could order a servant to play the lute or harp for him while he burrowed into his feather mattress with the finely woven sheets and wool blankets. He didn't need hay and whining dogs. He got to his feet, cheeks aflame at his own idiocy and began to painstakingly pick the hay out of his hair and brush the dust off his clothes.

And then he stopped. Yes, he could do all those things because of who he was. Being his father's son had afforded _him_ certain privileges that he'd come to understand as fact. But he was the lucky one.

Cailan climbed out of the pen and shook his blond hair out one last time and strode out of the kennels.

"Find what you needed, Highness?" the kennel master asked Cailan's retreating form.

Cailan turned and gave him a crooked grin. "No, not yet. But I have other places to look."


	2. Lying in Wait

**Notes: Young Cailan is fun to write, and with this, I felt I got far deeper into his character. I think he's learning more about himself than he is about the little stable boy, but that's not necessarily a bad thing.**

_Chapter 2: Lying in Wait_

King Maric furrowed his brow and rested his elbows on his knees, a posture that Cailan knew meant he was thinking. For his part, Cailan waited in the antechamber of the smaller audience hall with the heavy oak door cracked just enough to watch his father and hear what plump, ruddy-faced Seneschal Phillip was saying. Cailan knew it was about him and the chaos he'd been causing since returning from Redcliffe a month ago.

The King rubbed his eyes. When he removed his hand Cailan thought his father looked older. He never really stopped much to think about it; his father always seemed the same to him, but since their last trip to Redcliffe something had changed. Seneschal Phillip didn't notice it. The Arl of Denerim, who came to dine the other night didn't notice it. It was possible General Loghain noticed it, but he noticed everything; Cailan would have to devise a way to ask. He felt a moment of guilt for causing so much trouble, but as he'd learned in his history lessons, sometimes the ends had to justify the means.

"Have you heard from Eamon or Teagan?" Maric asked at last.

"They should arrive by the morrow, Majesty."

That was all Cailan needed to hear. He slunk out of the antechamber's other exit and all but ran down the stone corridor to his rooms. Walls were decked with evergreen boughs gathered from the forests south of Denerim, and the tangy scent matched Cailan's lively attitude. Fresh pine sprigs even festooned his four-poster bed; he shook his head at that, but figured Wintersend only came once a year; if the staff wanted to be festive, who was he to deny them that?

Well… he could deny them if he wanted. One word from him and the greenery would be a memory but for a lingering scent. He'd done that last year, and had felt pretty good about it until he saw the maid Cornelia's face as she removed the festive branches. He'd stood his ground and nodded his thanks, but when she left she'd seemed so hurt. _She shouldn't be, she was just doing what I told her,_ he'd thought. But when she very tentatively asked him if he'd mind the greens this year, he couldn't say no to her. The smile on her face made him feel much better than he would have if he'd said no. And the sharp pine scent was relaxing; it was almost like going to sleep in a forest. If the forest had feather mattresses.

Cailan would have liked to stay at the palace and continue his search, but with the servants abuzz at all hours of the day and night, there was no way he'd manage to go unnoticed sneaking about. And offering coin for information or silence only worked so well for so long. Cailan knew what he searched for could not be bribed out of anyone. It just had to be found, and he had to be the one to find it. But Uncle Teagan was visiting, and staying at the Redcliffe Estate. And Uncle Teagan would happily entertain his favorite, and only, nephew's careful inquiries.

As it turned out Cailan would not be Teagan's only nephew for very long. "We expect the babe around Kingsway," Aunt Isolde said, beaming at her husband when they arrived the next day. "We insist you bring Cailan back to Redcliffe for the Satinalia celebration. We intend to double it with the naming ceremony for our child." Though Isolde didn't have much of a belly to speak of, she still seemed to glow. Cailan glanced up at the winter sun pouring through the high windows and decided it was just the angle of the light.

"In that case, you two will probably wish to spend as much time as possible with your nephew," Maric announced, drawing the confused stares of Eamon and Teagan.

Cailan pasted on an eager smile, but inside he felt like the buckets of squirmy worms used as bait on the docks of Lake Calenhad. Teagan tried to teach him to fish once. He passed out when his uncle showed him how to bait the hook.

While Cailan remained rooted to the spot, smiling like the dwarven savant he'd seen in the market, Eamon and Teagan only had confused looks to give the King. "He's driving the servants crazy," Maric finally muttered, though Cailan heard every word. He'd grown quite good at overhearing things. He figured it'd be a useful skill for a king to have. "Phillip will have a bout of apoplexy if the boy causes any more delays in the preparations, and I'm up to my eyeballs overlooking this new trade agreement with Orlais and listening to Loghain rant about it."

So as night fell four people left the palace bound for the Redcliffe estate. Eamon and Isolde took the carriage, while Teagan and Cailan walked. "How's Rainesfere?" Cailan asked at last to break the cold silence. His breath made steam in the air and the tiny stars danced overhead in the silky black night.

"Small and cold, but livable," Teagan said with a grin. "Denerim?"

"The same. Just bigger," Cailan said.

Teagan's laugh split the night and was brighter than a million of those tiny pinprick stars. "Surely Denerim's not all that bad?" he asked.

Cailan shrugged and Teagan took his reticence for teenaged brooding. Just as well. Teagan always opened up more when Cailan brooded. It was his way of helping the Prince through the difficult aging process. Or so he'd told Maric last Solace after he'd explained some perfectly interesting, if not a bit scary, things about girls and boys. Cailan still wasn't entirely sure a baby could fit…there. He preferred Cornelia's tale about good fade spirits.

The interior of the Redcliffe estate smelled of dusty stone and a touch of mildew after having been closed off for most of the autumn and cool drafts blew in from open windows as the staff tried to air out the estate and make it suitable. The household staff began their preparations in earnest when Isolde informed them that Prince Cailan would be their guest, and as Cailan and Teagan removed their cloaks and boots, the prince caught the wary gleam in a maid's eye here, the uncertain glance from a serving elf there. He sighed. Just once he wanted them to treat him like a person. Like a member of the family. His own mother had likely stayed here at times, after all.

"Where's the lively boy who was into everything?" Teagan asked once they'd settled in. Isolde had gone to bed early, her pregnancy already sapping her energy. Eamon was in the study poring over correspondence, which irritated Cailan. Yes, it was his uncle's estate, but Cailan thought if there was anything to be found here, he might have luck starting with the study. Instead he sighed and looked to Teagan across the polished card table.

"I was wondering," Cailan began, and Teagan laid his hand of cards down and his own blue eyes took on that wary gleam. _Even my uncle's about to treat me like some exotic animal he can't get near,_ Cailan thought, but he banished the idea. "Can you tell me about my mother again?" He watched his uncle closely, watched the way he scratched his beard, the way he wouldn't meet Cailan's eyes. The way he half-smiled.

"I don't know what to tell you that I haven't already," he finally replied.

"Tell me everything again," Cailan said, possessed by a sudden intense desire to know all he could about his mother. He was only three when she died, so young that all he really had were impressions of her rather than real memories; suddenly that wasn't enough for him.

"You must remember, Cailan, I was very young myself, and living in the Free Marches when most of this happened," Teagan said, but Cailan didn't care. He set down his hand of cards, the game forgotten; and really, it had just been a way to get Teagan to sit down and talk to him. As the fire burned to embers, Teagan again told the story of Rowan Guerrin, his older sister.

Cailan watched, wondering if Teagan looked much like his sister. Sometimes Cailan would look in a mirror and try to spy some feature that had been his mother's. Everyone, from Eamon and Teagan, to Loghain, to the servants said Cailan was the exact image of his father. But there _had_ to be something of Rowan in there.

"Did my father love her?" Cailan asked when they'd been silent for a time, listening only to the crackling of the low flames. "I know how political marriages work, Uncle Teagan," he added, grimacing, because that was his future. Anora was nice, and she was pretty, but Maker's breath, he was just barely fifteen!

Teagan grew interested in the cards again, but Cailan fixed him with the same stare his father used on him. Teagan squirmed. "They were good for each other. He could see the bright spot in anything. She knew when to be serious. She grounded him, and he lifted her up." Cailan continued to stare. "I believe he did love her. I know she loved him very much. He was her world." And still Cailan stared as if he could draw more out of his uncle. "Maker's breath, Cailan, what else do you want me to say?" Teagan finally said, throwing his hands in the air, and promptly scattering cards all over.

Cailan laughed in spite of himself. "Sorry. I was just wondering. Hey, remember that talk you gave me?" he asked suddenly and Teagan turned a lovely shade of crimson. "I'm not a kid anymore, Uncle Teagan. I guess I was wondering… if…my father…" He sighed. No, he wasn't a child, but asking this type of question, even of his favorite uncle, was difficult. _This is what you wanted to know,_ the tiny voice whispered to him. A memory of the little stable boy flashed through his mind and yet he still couldn't manage to ask. "Never mind," he said in a quiet voice as his own cheeks flamed.

"I think that's a question you should save for your father, if you even should save it at all," Teagan said in an even voice. Teagan fixed his own stare on his nephew. But there wasn't disappointment there. If anything there was warning. "You lost your mother at a very young age. Your father took that loss hard. But he always put you first." Teagan gathered the cards, effectively ending the evening.

As he lay in the dark, Cailan was troubled. Teagan said Maric had always put his son first; but buried in those impressions from his early youth, Cailan recalled a time when his father simply wasn't there. Sometimes it haunted him like a bad dream: wandering through the palace, calling for his father, dragging the remains of a stuffed toy behind him. He looked in every room and eventually ended up in the root cellar, sucking his thumb and holding his tattered toy until Loghain found him and brought him back to his room. He cried; Loghain stood in the doorway, head bowed, lips clamped in a bloodless line. When the general looked up Cailan was ready for a reprimand, but then Loghain simply gave the boy a rough hug and left.

Though he was tired, Cailan couldn't sleep for fear of that old nightmare. In the years since then his father had gone on trips to other countries; he'd spent time in Gwaren and Highever and left Cailan in the care of his tutors and Cornelia's sharp gaze. The difference was he always told Cailan when he was leaving. So Cailan knew that he didn't have to wake up and wander the castle looking for a man who'd just… vanished.

He sat on the cushioned window seat and watched the low-burning torches of Denerim below. His breath fogged the glass, and he traced snowflakes in it. He wondered about Redcliffe. Did the servants have their own Wintersend festival when the Arl and Arlessa were away? How many of them lived in the castle bunks? Or did some have family in the village? And what about the ones who didn't have family. Who didn't live in the castle.

Who slept in the stables.

Cailan was positive no one would bother festooning the horse stalls with pine garland, and life would continue as it always did. Perhaps there would be a brief pause to honor the Maker for bringing the end of winter and the start of the spring. But it would certainly not be the vibrant festival Cailan was looking forward to. He didn't know what it would be like to just let every day be the same. Up with the sunrise, work, pause for simple meals, down with the sunset. Without variation.

_It could just as easily have been you,_ that little voice told him, and he shivered and ran back to the bed, burrowing under the covers. An elf servant had heated them with coals in a flat iron pot, and Cailan was toasty. But the chill inside remained, because he didn't like what the voice said, and didn't even know where it came from.

* * *

><p>Arl Eamon had fallen asleep in the study. Cailan swore under his breath. The rest of the estate was asleep, except for the elven servants who'd risen with the sun to go to the market. He'd snuck by the kitchen and overheard them talking. "What do we feed him?" one young female elf asked.<p>

"He's our guest, he eats whatever we cook for him," another said.

"He'll eat it and like it, and that's all there is to it," an older one said, clearly the head of the kitchens. The younger female looked at her with shock in her wide, green elven eyes and the woman sighed and made the sign of the Maker. "If he's been taught manners, then he will graciously accept what we provide," she said, tactfully rephrasing what she'd said, and Cailan's stomach dropped out, leaving an icy void in his abdomen. They were talking about him.

He waited what felt like a long time, but Eamon wasn't getting up, so Cailan slipped on his boots and cloak and headed out into the crisp morning. The sky looked like someone had turned a great bowl upside down, trapping the world under translucent white pottery, and the air smelled of snow. He wandered the grounds, picking out the sounds of an estate waking up. A clatter of pots from the kitchens as he passed; the creak of cart wheels and clop of hooves as someone returned from the market; the impatient whinnies of the horses in the stables where Cailan now found himself.

He was caught between a smile and a grimace when he saw someone had indeed draped pine garland over the horse stalls. Teagan's big bay, Brego, was trying to nibble on the needles, impatient for breakfast. "Hey. Don't eat that. It's a decoration," Cailan said, ambling over to Brego's stall. He wished he'd stopped by the kitchen to grab an apple or some sugar, but after the conversation he'd overheard he knew he'd be avoiding that area of the estate for the duration of his stay. Maybe eavesdropping wasn't such a great skill after all. "Here." He pulled some hay from an overhanging net and held it out, and Brego nuzzled his hand and chomped the hay. Cailan smiled and rubbed the warm nose. He glanced around, and seeing no one, closed his eyes and pressed his face to the horse's neck. He inhaled the scent of warm animal and hay and felt the strong muscles rippling against his cheek. "When Father lets me pick my own horse, I'm picking one just like you," he told Brego, scratching its ears and keeping his eyes closed, just enjoying the sounds and smells of the stable.

"I like how they smell, too," a small voice said and Cailan scrambled backward as Teagan's horse whickered and knocked Cailan in the shoulder. "The others make fun of me, but they do smell nice." Cailan caught himself on the gate of an empty stall and looked around only to see the young stable boy standing in front of Teagan's horse, reaching up a grubby hand to pet its nose. Brego sniffed and then bumped his velvet nose against the boy's hand, and the boy smiled.

"You're the boy from Redcliffe."

He nodded.

"Alistair, right?"

The boy turned, eyes round as saucers, and the blood draining from his cheeks. "Don't tell the Bann I was touching his horse, I just like him is all," he said, stumbling over his words.

Cailan searched the boy long and hard, as he often searched his own reflection. No, there was absolutely nothing of the Guerrins in that face, or in those eyes. But if not Eamon, then who?

Alistair still watched him, caught somewhere between curiosity and terror. Cailan knew the feeling; he got it whenever his father looked at him the way he now looked at Alistair. "What are you doing here? You're too small to be Bann Teagan's personal groom," he teased, but it just made Alistair look more frightened.

"I'm staying in the city," he said. "When the Arl and his wife leave, I'm going to the Chantry. They say I'm going to be a templar." He went back to petting the horse.

"That's a noble profession," Cailan said, though he knew little about the templar order. Perhaps he'd been preoccupied during that lesson. He made a mental note to ask Brother Severus to cover that material again. "I'll tell you what, Alistair," he told the boy, who couldn't be much more than ten years old. He pulled two silvers out of his pocket. "I won't tell my Uncle Teagan that you were petting his horse, if you don't ever tell anyone I was here talking to you." He handed the coins to Alistair, who regarded them with narrow eyes. The expression left Cailan unsettled, but he'd grown good at covering his emotions, and kept a pleasant smile fixed on his face.

"It's because you're the Prince and you're not supposed to talk to servants," Alistair said at last. And was that… bitterness in his voice? And what about that stare _he_ now fixed Cailan with?

Cailan shook his head, and made another note to start changing his reputation amongst the servants. He wasn't ever going to get anywhere if they were all afraid of him. "It's because this needs to be secret. I'll actually be in a lot more trouble than you if anyone finds out about this," he added, and something troubling must have passed over his face, because Alistair nodded solemnly, his scraggly dark blond hair falling in his round, childish face.

"Keep your coin," he said at last. "If the Arlessa finds it I'll have my arse thrashed. I don't want to start being a templar with a thrashed arse."

Cailan had to stifle his laughter. "That's wise, Alistair. Maker watch over you."

"Maker watch you," Alistair replied, and Cailan stole away from the stables.

By the time he made it back to the estate Eamon had left the study, but before Cailan could get in, Teagan caught up with him. "Anything of interest in the stables this morning?" he asked, his eyes all innocence.

But Cailan could play this game as well. He wiped all emotion from his face, smiled and met his uncle's gaze with his clear blue eyes. "Aside from your horse trying to eat the Wintersend decorations off his stall? Nope." And then he shrugged. "I just like the way the horses smell."


	3. Amiss

**As this is a collection of linked shorts, some pieces will take on different narrative styles and voices. The idea is to characterize Cailan from multiple perspectives to try and give a fuller, more dynamic view of him. And who better to characterize Cailan than Maric?**

_Chapter 3: Amiss_

Maric doesn't believe in ghosts, but something's not quite right. Everything is as he left it: the copies of the new Orlesian trade agreement, complete with Loghain's scrawled notes screaming disapproval even from the page, are on the desk. His gold signet ring is still out next to the gilt tray with the stub of red sealing wax. All the books on the shelves, some priceless original tomes of Fereldan history and lore, stand at attention in the same order in which Brother Severus organized them.

So what's amiss?

Maric shivers, though the window is closed and a roll of stuffed fabric lines the sill to prevent drafts, and a fire crackles in the hearth. He pauses to look out to the yard below, where Brother Severus instructs Cailan. The wan early spring light struggles with the clouds, but errant rays make Cailan's blond hair gleam. The boy will need a haircut soon; that is, unless he's too vain. But Maric can't fault his son; he prefers his hair long as well, though he often ties it back because it gets hard to concentrate on Orlesian trade agreements when one's hair is constantly in one's face. Cailan leaves his hair loose and wild.

He gives his son a smile that the boy won't see, and whispers a breath of thanks to the Maker for allowing him to continue to watch Cailan's growth. Especially in the last few months. Something has happened that has made Cailan a warmer person, more pleasant and compassionate. Perhaps he is just growing up. Whatever it is, Maric likes it and isn't about to question what's behind it.

But he does want to know what is behind this strange feeling in his office. Loghain never comes in here without Maric, unless the King is away and Loghain is acting in his stead. Cailan knows better, because he's only ever brought in here on those occasions when Maric must dole out discipline; Maric is the king, but he is a father first and foremost. The servants stay away unless he specifically asks them to tidy up, and he hasn't done that lately.

He trails a calloused finger over the fireplace mantle, picking up some dust and thinking maybe he should ask the servants to tidy up. He inspects the ornaments on the mantle, pausing at the intricately carved stone dragon. It was a gift from the Divine herself upon his coronation. He and Loghain won the decisive battle of River Dane the same day dragons reappeared in Thedas; hardly a coincidence.

But with all he's seen, Maric doesn't believe in coincidences anymore. Things happen. There is cause, and there is effect. Nothing more.

But some effects linger longer than he would like.

He settles into a dark blue, velvet covered chair before the crackling fire that he built himself. Though any servant would leap to the task, Maric prefers doing it himself. It reminds him of his youth in the rebel camps. He was clumsy and always underfoot, hardly capable of doing anything useful until a grizzled soldier from South Reach taught him how to build a fire. While Maric now builds fires in marble fireplaces rather than rough stone pits, the task is methodical and a bit relaxing.

His blue eyes, so much like his son's, drift to the portrait above the fire and he sighs. "I have a ghost," he tells it with a resigned shrug. The fierce green eyes stare down at him, and though it's just a portrait, that stare tells him what he knows inside. "You're right, like always. There's no ghost, and I'm just being ridiculous. Thank you for reminding me." He looks wistfully at the portrait, at the deep chestnut curls and the straight mouth with only a hint of a smile, as if seeing something only she finds amusing. Cailan has that look sometimes. And usually, as it was with his wife, Maric is the object of that amusement.

"Can you believe he's fifteen?" Maric asks the portrait, and Rowan's unblinking painted eyes encourage him to go on. "I worry about him," he confesses. "It's normal to do that, right? He's been strange lately. Not in a bad way, but I can't put my finger on it." He paces, pausing to take in the quirk of Rowan's painted mouth. So like Cailan. "It's like he knows something I don't."

Saying this, if only to the portrait of his dead wife, makes Maric feel better. He knows the picture can't give him any answers, but at least talking has helped him give a name to his confusion. He smiles at Rowan, closes his eyes and remembers how gently she could touch him, with the same hands that grasped sword and shield and cut down many Orlesian troops. How bright and happy she looked, holding their son. He opens his eyes before he can remember her ghostly paleness as she wasted away before him.

"I'm going crazy," he tells her, and her hint of a grin confirms it. He rises and heads for the door, but as he does a sunbeam breaks free of the light cloud cover and shines through the window. Maric glimpses the chest where he keeps his past locked away. The dragonbone sword from the Deep Roads. Rowan's wedding dress. A lock of Katriel's hair, tucked deep in a blue velvet pouch. One letter from Duncan about Fiona.

His calloused hand glides over the smooth, rich wood. The silverite lock is in place. Yet Maric feels the ghostly chill again; he shrugs it away and turns. The light brightens as the clouds drift, and then he sees what's amiss. A few strands of long, blond hair rest on the silk carpet beneath the chest and gleam in the sun. Maric doesn't have to worry about a ghost getting in here; he has to worry about a ghost getting out.

The next time Cailan calls for a reprimand, Maric will have to find a new room.


	4. Ambush

**While I disliked him in-game, I'll admit that reading _Stolen Throne_ and _The Calling_ made me really like Loghain. By the time of Origins, a lot had happened to make him who he was. But leading up to that, he was a different person, especially as far as Cailan was concerned...**

_Chapter 4: Ambush_

"You." Teyrn Loghain looked up from currying his horse. "Anora remains in Gwaren, your Highness. If that is all I humbly take my leave."

Cailan smiled, in spite of the chill gleam in the Teyrn's eyes. Loghain always looked like that. It used to scare Cailan, but he'd grown used to it. "She is well, I hope?" he asked.

"She was when I left, and I assume she still is, as there have been no breathless messengers assailing me on the road to tell me otherwise."

"Send my regards?"

"As always, Highness."

"How long will you be in Denerim?" Cailan asked, sticking close while Loghain put the grooming tools away, as if the man would disappear like a wisp if he let him out of his sight.

"Long enough." Loghain glanced down and Cailan caught the hint of amusement on the man's craggy face. "Were you waiting here just to ask me that?"

"No," Cailan said. His smile brightened as half-truths flowed from him as smoothly as honey drizzled over a morning scone. "Father said I'll be able to choose my own horse when I'm sixteen, so I've been spending time in the stables examining the horses to see what I like."

Loghain snorted, like a bull about to charge. Luckily the Teyrn had to put up with him because of his father. Cailan intended to use this to his advantage. "So unlike your father in that regard," Loghain said. "He was a terrible rider. It's a miracle of the Maker that the man can stay mounted even now." His eyes softened for one moment. "That's your mother in you, boy." And then he hardened over as quickly as if he'd been struck with a freezing spell. "Good luck with your examinations." And he strode out of the stable.

Cailan watched him go, absently petting Loghain's huge black horse. When Loghain's shadow disappeared, Cailan scratched the horse's ears, which he knew the animal liked. And then he dug an apple out of his pocket, which he knew the animal loved. "Maybe I'll find a horse like you," he told the Teyrn's mount. "What do you think?" The horse only snorted contentment, spraying Cailan's hand with apple juice.

He wiped his hand on his trousers and hoped he'd get better, and less messy, answers from the Teyrn.

* * *

><p>"And it's… you. Again."<p>

Loghain barely concealed his sardonic tone when he came out of Maric's office and saw Cailan waiting. He wore breeches and a rough tunic, and his long golden hair was pulled back. "I was wondering if I could show you what Master Durin is teaching me," Cailan said, keeping his tone nonchalant and casual, though inside he was terrified. For one, Loghain already looked irritated at seeing him, and speaking with him, a second time in one day. And of course, the thought of sparring with the Teyrn and facing his disapproval—or worse—the edge of his blade, even blunted, was enough to make him seriously consider his relationship with the Maker. But Cailan's sunny smile and clear eyes belied none of this.

The Teyrn sighed. "Andraste's arse, boy. Do you ambush your father like this?"

Cailan nodded, all wide blue-eyed innocence. One of the younger maids had confided that he was cute when he was clueless, before she blushed and ran off, probably fearing royal wrath; Cailan had been rather pleased by the compliment, and now used the look to his advantage. "All the time, Ser. He sent me to the Redcliffe estate before Wintersend because I wouldn't stay out of mischief."

Loghain arched an eyebrow and his light eyes narrowed a bit before he resumed his own neutral, clueless expression. "That so. Anything of note there?"

"Nothing out of the usual," Cailan said. Though he still smiled, and though the Teyrn's face remained impassive, Cailan had the feeling of stepping on thin ice. One wrong move and he would plunge into something dangerous. "Teagan's got a nice horse. Can I tell Master Durin to expect you in the yards?" he asked.

Loghain sighed, but it was more of a rumbling noise, like a mountain about to erupt. "Will it cease your incessant babbling?" he asked. Cailan nodded and the Teyrn closed his eyes for a moment before fixing Cailan with a hard stare. "Fine. Ready yourself. I expect to see improvement over the pathetic drills you showed me the last time I was here."

Anyone else would have been intimidated by Loghain's harsh, barking words, but Cailan just laughed it away. "No promises, Teyrn Loghain. But I'll do my best." He turned and glided past the Teyrn. He wasn't sure if he was supposed to hear it when the man muttered _fool boy_ beneath his breath, but Cailan didn't bother himself with that. Nor did he bother himself with mentally rehearsing the fencing patterns he'd been drilling. He focused on remembering the questions he wanted to ask about his father. Because if anyone would be able to answer those questions, it was Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir.

"Move your shield up. Guard your flank. Watch… Maker's breath," Loghain muttered, and beneath his awkward practice helm Cailan flushed. He found it was difficult focusing on Master Durin's offensive strokes and listening to Loghain's instructions. "Your right is exposed… don't just rely on your shield, parry… Not like that!" The Teyrn's voice increased in volume with each comment, flustering Cailan until he felt like little more than a flailing suit of armor. He flung his shield before his exposed torso and moved to parry Master Durin's stroke, but the weapons master feinted and landed a heavy blow to Cailan's unguarded left flank.

"Maker, Your Highness, have you been watching and listening while I train you?" Durin roared. Cailan nodded as he stripped off the helm, strands of blond hair clinging to his sweaty face. His cheeks burned with the exertion of sparring, so at least he wouldn't show his shame too much. "I apologize, Teyrn Loghain," Durin said, and he was also flushed, but Cailan knew he was angry with him for embarrassing him in front of the Teyrn. "I don't know where this one's head has been during lessons, but if he keeps this up, it'll wind up on a pike!"

"Enough," Loghain roared, and Durin's face went white. Cailan dropped his practice blade and cowered in his mail while Loghain stormed into the yard and stood before him. "Dismissed, weapons master," he growled at Durin, and his voice was the sound of the earth shaking in warning. Cailan felt the weight of that command reverberate up through his feet and lodge in his mind. His future father-in-law was bloody _scary_ sometimes.

"Take up your sword, boy," Loghain said, his voice back to its usual gruffness. Cailan did as commanded. "Look at me. Cailan, look," Loghain snapped, irritated more with the boy's hesitation than with Cailan himself. "You did what you were taught, and you did that passably well," he said at last. Cailan dared a glance up at the Teyrn, who suddenly wasn't much taller than he was, and Cailan wondered when that had happened. "Master Durin has taught you offensive moves. Those are necessary."

"So why did you keep shouting defensive moves at me if I was doing what I should be doing?" Cailan asked at last, irritably picking strands of sweat-soaked hair off his face.

"Because that's what you _really_ should have been doing," Loghain said. His face cracked into a slight smile, but it did not reach his eyes. "I assume Master Durin felt the need to show off for Ferelden's great general, and made his attacks more offensive. But as a king, Cailan, you will find yourself on the defensive more often." Loghain's voice was softer, more like talking to a friend than a displeasing pupil. He took up a practice blade of his own, and spent the next two hours teaching Cailan defensive maneuvers.

Cailan was dripping again. "So… I'll be able to parry my enemy forever. Great." He quickly angled his sword to block a blow from Loghain.

"Come back tomorrow and I can show you how to use your defensive parry to turn your enemy's attack against him," Loghain said, and there was grim amusement in those cool eyes. "They never see it coming. It's beautiful, really." Cailan stared at him with wide eyes, and the amusement manifested in another smile. "Enough for today. I suspect your father will be wondering where we both are."

Cailan was more exhausted than he'd ever been working with Master Durin, and it was a struggle to keep up with the Teyrn's strides even though he had grown quite a bit since Loghain's last visit. "Do you remember that time when I was really little and you found me in the root cellar?" he asked, breathless from nearly running, but keeping his tone as casual as he could manage.

Loghain's step did not falter. Damn the man and his cool, levelheadedness. "If I recall correctly, you'd had a nightmare and wound up there."

"Why did you find me, and not my father?"

Silence, but for the purposeful step of Loghain's boots and Cailan's quick shuffle next to him.

"Your father was occupied."

"Where was he?" Cailan asked, and he could only hope Loghain did not catch the desperate tone in his voice.

Loghain stopped and faced Cailan, and there was pity in those pale eyes. "Cailan, do you know what happens when you wake a Mabari that is fast asleep?"

The question took Cailan aback, and he wondered just how his father and Mabari hounds were comparable. Aside from fierceness on the battlefield, that was. He shook his head, mute and unsure about the change in topic.

Loghain sighed. "Mabari are smart, and can be playful as puppies, but in their hearts they are warriors. When they sleep they let their guard down, as any warrior does. Which is why you should keep a weapon under your pillow," he added. "When you wake a Mabari from a deep sleep, they perceive it as a threat and attack."

"I don't know what this has to do with my father," Cailan said. Even though it was interesting.

Loghain chuckled, but there was no mirth in it. "Keep working on your defensive moves, Your Highness," he said, and whenever he addressed Cailan that way, he knew the conversation was over. "If you continue with this… curiosity, you may need them."

* * *

><p>Cailan sipped at his tea and flipped the page in <em>The Ballad of the Black Fox<em>. His father had received a copy direct from Gaston Gerrault himself a few years back, and it was one of the books in the library that Cailan could read again and again. Then again, most of the books: the ballads, the stories, the novels, he could read and reread and never grow tired of the tales of adventure and glory. He'd grown up on his father's stories, after all. The only books he didn't care to read were the books about foreign policy and diplomacy, and the more boring parts of the history books.

"I could always find your mother in here, when you were asleep and she finally had time to herself."

Cailan nearly spilled his tea and inwardly cursed at Loghain for ambushing him this time. He marked his place with a scrap of vellum. "Everyone says I'm just like my father. But… I'm a lot like my mother too, right?" he asked, and amazed himself with the question.

Loghain settled down in the chair next to Cailan, also carrying a mug of steaming honeyed tea. "People probably tell you you're just like Maric because they didn't get the chance to know Rowan," he said. "Many people will say that, but for her coloring, Anora is just like me. She ought to be, since I've raised her." Something in him softened, like melting snow. "Her mother also died when she was quite young, so my influence upon her upbringing is far more pronounced than it would be had my wife lived."

Cailan realized with a start that he'd never really given much thought to Anora's mother. When she came to Denerim, it was always just Anora and Loghain. It was the only way he remembered it being, and suddenly felt very foolish for never asking. Then again, Anora had never asked about his mother, either.

"Is this the part where you begin to ask me questions about your mother?" Loghain asked with a slight grin on his face. "Again?"

Cailan shook his head. His hair was loose again today, and a few locks fell before his eyes like a curtain. "I've asked everyone about my mother," he said. "Even though I was really little when she died, I feel like I know her." He pushed his hair from his eyes and tried to meet Loghain's look. "But my father. If anyone could answer questions about him, it's you."

"And what makes you so certain I'll answer questions about Maric? Questions you could ask him yourself?"

"We're almost family?" Cailan said with a crooked grin. "Come on, Teyrn Loghain, Anora and I have been betrothed for _years_ now. I'm practically your son-in-law already." Loghain's eyes were narrow, and he'd set down his mug. The steam curled up before him, and Cailan, looking at him through the steam, was almost frightened by the darkness that passed over the Teyrn's stern face. He leaned his elbows on the table, steepling his fingers, and met Cailan's eyes with the coldest stare Cailan had ever felt from anyone—his father included. "Just one question, then," he said in a meek voice. He wasn't willing to give up, but this was one of those times when Loghain was bloody scary as the Void.

Loghain blinked and the shadow was gone. He took another sip of tea. "One question."

"You'll answer honestly?"

"Upon my life as your subject, Highness," Loghain said and there was an edge of irony in his voice.

Cailan nodded. The library felt cold, even though it was spring and getting warmer by the day. Then he realized the cold was coming from inside. His stomach was a bundle of nerves and his mind raced as he tried to find just one question to ask of the many that jumbled through his brain day in and day out. Loghain watched him, but didn't rush him. Just sipped his tea and let him collect his thoughts.

"That time when I was five, and I couldn't find my father. I looked all over the castle for him, and he wasn't here. Where was he?"

Loghain set down his cup quickly, as if the shock of the question might cause him to drop it. "You asked this yesterday."

"And you didn't swear to give me an honest answer," Cailan pointed out. "If you tell me the same thing you told me yesterday, after you've given your word, I'll be satisfied," he said, though he knew that was as much a half truth as what the Teyrn had told him the day before.

Loghain rubbed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Maker's breath, Cailan, does your father know what a handful you are?" he asked, and Cailan shrugged apologetically. "I've been angry with your father on many occasions in the years that we've known each other," he said at last. "But never more angry that that time." Cailan waited, nearly breathless, but Loghain did not explain. Still, it intrigued him to know that Loghain was capable of getting angry with his father, the king. Loghain caught Cailan's fascinated stare and smiled. "Everyone in Ferelden is afraid of your father because he's the king. He needs me around because I'm not afraid of him."

"And he's afraid of you for it," Cailan said with his own smile. "But that doesn't answer my question."

"So damned determined. That would be your father in you, for certain." Loghain sighed. "Your father went to the Deep Roads. It was against my counsel, and probably the most irresponsible thing he's ever done as a king and as a father."

The Deep Roads. Cailan had read about the ancient dwarven construction that linked all of Ferelden, and possibly all of Thedas, by subterranean tunnels. He knew most of them were closed off because of the darkspawn that were a constant, whispered threat, and were supposed to be more wicked than Orlesians. "Why would he go there?" he whispered, unable to keep the troubling thought silent. "And why wouldn't he listen to you? You know things. And know what you're talking about," Cailan said. Something inside of him turned over, and he began to understand what Loghain meant when he spoke of waking sleeping Mabari.

"I believe that exceeds your one question limit," Loghain said with slight smile, but he was troubled as well, as if Cailan's one question and his one honest answer had stirred up the muck of the past and released something dangerous. "But I will tell you there were Grey Wardens involved, and perhaps their mystique intrigued him." He stood suddenly, nearly overturning the table and the still half-full mug on it. "Finish your tea and get breakfast if you haven't already. I have several things to show you in the yards today."

Loghain spent the next fortnight in Denerim, and Cailan learned more sword work in those fourteen days than he'd learned in months training with Master Durin. He was tactful though, and didn't say as much to the weapons master. What he didn't learn was any more about his father's strange disappearance into the Deep Roads, and all it took was a glance at Teyrn Loghain to remind him not to ask any more questions.

* * *

><p>"Andraste's flaming sword, Cailan! Don't do that!" Maric exclaimed, backing against a wall and breathing hard.<p>

Cailan had melted out of the shadows like a pale ghost of the boy Maric had been at that age. But then he smiled, and the ghostliness vanished and Cailan was just the troublesome fifteen-year-old again. "Sorry," he said with an impish grin. "I didn't mean to scare you."

"Sure you didn't," Maric said, mirroring his son's grin. He lunged toward Cailan, who laughed and dodged his father easily. "Maker's breath, boy, when did you start growing up?" he asked, still smiling, but the twinkle in his blue eyes wasn't from joy. If anything, it was sad. It was the sadness Cailan had been starting to see more of since the last trip to Redcliffe, and it chafed his heart the way tight practice armor chafed his body. He shrugged, suddenly shy, and Maric invited him into his office.

Cailan hesitated, wondering if he was in trouble, and knowing he full well deserved it, but his father's sad smile overrode his nerves. He sat in a chair under the portrait of his mother and waited. What had Loghain told his father? And then his eyes glanced toward the locked chest in the corner. While he was getting good at sliding through the shadows of the palace, seeing and hearing all, his lockpicking skills needed a lot of work.

"You spent a lot of time with Loghain this past fortnight," Maric said at last.

"Well, he is my future father-in-law," Cailan said, earning a smirk and a head shake from his father.

"Did you learn anything useful from him? Aside from even more clever ways to torment me, of course."

A thousand thoughts burning with the heat of a thousand bonfires raced through Cailan's mind, and he found it difficult to keep his face blank and bright. It felt like a test, but when he searched his father's face there was nothing other than the usual pleasant look about it, combined with a playful gleam as he looked on his son. And meeting those blue eyes, so much warmer than Loghain's, so much like his own, Cailan nearly asked him about the Deep Roads ten years ago.

"Loghain taught me better defensive moves. Turns out, you can actually turn an opponent's attack back on them if you parry it right." He beamed proudly and his father nodded knowingly. Father and son discussed the finer points of swordplay for a long while, and though Cailan longed to ask what would drive a man away from his kingdom, and his only son, and into the depths of the earth he figured it was best to let this Mabari stay asleep for now.


	5. Puzzled

**I would be remiss if I didn't note the homages this segment makes to Cadsuane's _Mistakes_, specifically the loft, and the idea to cameo the young nobles. If you haven't, read that story; it's phenomenal, and the link can be found in my Young Alistair Chronicles community.**

_Chapter 5: Puzzled_

Redcliffe Castle has exploded with the Satinalia celebration and my cousin Connor's gala all rolled into one. Aside from being my father's brother-in-law, Uncle Eamon's Arling is large and commands a certain level of respect. All of the Arls are here with their families, and some of the Banns as well as the two Teyrns. Which of course means Anora's here with her father. She looked pretty during the naming ceremony at the Chantry. She sat next to me in her light blue dress; the way it fit made it hard to listen to the Revered Mother. She keeps her hair pulled back, showing off her eyes.

She tells me it's nice to see me; she asks how I've been and how my studies progress and am I getting better with the sword. She looks at the ground, glancing up at me through her thick, dark eyelashes and when she blinks it's like watching butterfly wings. She smiles and I blush and feel like an idiot while a few of the older boys watch, envious. She smells a little like roses.

But it's too hard to think around Anora, or around any of the other nobles who bow to me and call me Highness and tell me how much I look like my father. So the first chance I get, I steal away to the stables. I know the stable boy's not here, and that the hayloft is no place for a prince. For this prince, at least. But I go anyway. I need to be alone with all the thoughts I've had since I wandered down here last winter.

Most of the horses are out in the pasture, though Teagan's bay, Brego, threw a shoe on the way from Rainesfere and the blacksmith hasn't been able to make it up from the village yet because of all the activity. Brego stamps in his stall below me, unhappy that he's been left out. I lie on my stomach and carefully creep to the edge of the loft and look over to see Brego hanging his head over the door of his stall. "You know how he felt," I tell Brego, and he looks up at the sound of my voice. "Everyone's out having fun and you're alone in here." Brego heaves a horse sigh, and I crawl back into the loft and lean on a pile of fresh hay. My fingers play with the golden straw, digging into it as if I could burrow in and hide. For one moment I'm tempted, but dismiss the thought. There's no point trying; they'd find me eventually.

My own sigh is as heavy as the horse's and I'm angry with myself because I can't just leave this well enough alone. Every city, every village in Ferelden is crawling with bastard children. Redcliffe is no different, and even if Uncle Eamon did have a bastard son he sent to the Chantry, so what? It protects Connor's inheritance as the legitimate son. It's politics.

But not every village in Ferelden has a bastard child who has such eerily familiar traits.

The wondering doesn't bother me. So what if father had another child that he whisked off to Redcliffe in the middle of a dark and stormy night? Actually, I kind of wish he did. Denerim gets boring; Anora doesn't visit nearly as often as I'd like, and the other nobles' children are in some sort of competition to be my best friend. I've grown up around servants who look away from me; nobles who only want to be in my good graces; Loghain who is sure I'll never measure up to Maric the Savior. And then there is my father, who returned from the Deep Roads a changed man, and who changed even more after we visited Redcliffe just under a year ago. If I had a brother, I might have someone I could talk to about all this.

What really bothers me is that I'm starting to have secrets. I have to lie to my father. Well, not lie, but omit certain details. Limit myself to half-truths. I could always be honest with him, and I thought he was always honest with me. But now there's a glass wall between us, and only I know it's there.

My hand touches something deep in the haystack, and I yank it back. Maker only knows what lives in here. But no irate rats leap up at me, so I brush aside the hay, nearly holding my breath to see what I've found. Then I laugh. It's a child's toy. I examine what appears to be a small golem figure. It conjures images of a child playing with his or her toys in the hayloft where they could be undisturbed and spend hours envisioning the haystacks were mountains, and the mice were rodents of unusual size the golem had to hunt down to save an imaginary village.

"Cailan?" Uncle Teagan's voice makes me drop the toy and rush to the loft ladder. I think I can get down without him seeing… Nope. "What were you doing up there?" He tries to smile, but he is confused and can't hide it. "Surely you would prefer the grandiosity up at the castle." He says this with a slight smirk. This is why Teagan is my favorite uncle.

"I just wanted to think, and it's quiet here."

Teagan attends to Brego, who is brooding in his stall. "Completely understandable. Your father likes his quiet time as well."

Even though he is very much alive, sometimes my father is like a ghost that haunts every conversation I have with another adult. "Did he ask you to find me?"

"No, he'd have come looking for you himself, I suspect," Teagan says. "I saw you'd slipped away. And I wanted to check on Brego anyway." He strokes his horse's neck. He frowns and I realize he must be mirroring my expression. "You're growing up fast, Cailan, but your father still cares about you." I force myself to smile and nod and Teagan sees right through it. "Don't tell me this is more of your teenaged brooding."

"I don't brood," I tell him, straightening up and tossing my hair back. I brush the straw from my shoulder, as if it is offensive. "I mope."

Teagan's laugh startles Brego, who snorts because this is more fun he is being left out of. I feel his large, warm eyes follow us as we leave the stables, heading back up to the castle. When I left Uncle Eamon's estate stable back in Wintermarch, the stable boy, Alistair, watched me the same way.

The celebration lasts into the night, and when the sun goes down there are fireworks. Anora and I stand between our fathers, and she gasps as the first red and green flowers of fire blossom in the night sky. Little Connor starts crying, and I take Anora's hand. The explosions echo across Lake Calenhad, and the kaleidoscope flashes reflect off its smooth surface. Another flash of blue and gold draws applause. I glance up at my father, his profile illuminated first in blue, then in red, now in gold. He catches me watching him, smiles, and rests his hand on my shoulder for a moment.

As another explosion draws the delight of the crowd, I'm still wondering why he would leave me to go into the Deep Roads.

Eamon and Isolde have opened the castle to guests for the evening, since many have come from so far. They put the Couslands in rooms on one side of me and my father, and Loghain and Anora's rooms on the other. It's like a nobility sandwich. Teyrn Bryce Cousland's daughter, Fianna, wants to play swords with me, Nathaniel Howe, and her older brother Fergus, but Teyrna Eleanor ushers her youngest to bed with an apologetic bob of her head. I hear Fianna complaining all the way down the hall, and Fergus rolls his eyes. "That's my baby sister for you," he says with a laugh; Nathaniel only smiles, but then, he's always been quiet, preferring to think first and speak after. A lot of the other nobles could learn something from him; Maker's breath, _I've_ learned something from him. Anora and Delilah Howe are having a hushed conversation in a shadowed corner, and they keep glancing at us and giggling.

We part ways and when the activity has died down and the lamps have been lowered, I listen at my father's door, but all is quiet on the other side. The corridors are empty as I steal through the castle. I've come to Redcliffe so often that I know the corridors nearly as well as I do the ones at home. I sidle past the guestrooms where other noble families are packed in tight, and I feel a little guilty. Anora and Loghain each have their own room, as do my father and I, and the Cousland family has two rooms; Fergus and his sister Fianna share. We're high nobility, but I think we could handle squishing for one night. But it's not like Aunt Isolde's going to listen to me if I suggested that. "Sometimes we just have to let people do what they think is right," my father told me once.

Those words haunt me because I think of Alistair the stable boy. Instead of watching the fireworks he's stuck in the Denerim Chantry as a templar initiate. He's squashed into a dormitory with others in a similar predicament. Why… no. _How _could father let Eamon and Isolde do that, and how could they think that's right?

The lamps in the study have been extinguished, but the night is clear and a waxing moon sends its beams through the window and across the desk as I creep in. I never did get to poke around Eamon's study in his Denerim estate, and I'm not going to miss this golden opportunity. It's a huge risk with most of Ferelden's nobles in various states of sleep or sleeplessness around me, but the intrigue makes my heart pound.

I sit in the red velvet cushioned chair behind Uncle Eamon's wide mahogany desk. It's similar to my father's desk, only not strewn with papers or spotted with ink drops. I slide out the center drawer. The contents are pretty standard: melted nubs of sealing wax, one seal with the Redcliffe heraldry, another with Eamon's initials. Several quills, stained with ink. Some blank vellum. And under that, a folded sheet of vellum. I slide it out. The red seal is broken, and in the moonlight I can't tell what the emblem was.

When I unfold the letter, four pieces of a silver amulet fall out, landing on the desk with a chime. I listen for footsteps over the pounding of my heart. I hold my breath until I see stars dancing in the moonlight and hear nothing. Safe. For now.

I have to twist and hold the letter up to the moonlight just so in order to read the spindly handwriting.

_12 Firstfall, 9.18 Dragon_

_To his Grace Arl Eamon Guerrin of Redcliffe:_

_The Chantry has received your request, and I am pleased to inform you that we will accept Alistair as a templar initiate upon the reaching of his tenth year. Your unique concerns have been taken into account, and you may expect the boy's delicate circumstances to be handled with utmost discretion. Though you've undoubtedly coached him to maintain his silence, we will continue to do so as part of his training. We will arrange to collect the boy from your estate in Denerim come Wintersend._

_Most sincerely,_

_Knight-Commander Ruehl_

I can't imagine being Uncle Eamon's bastard son is a "delicate circumstance" that requires the level of silence this Knight-Commander implies. And why would a simple bastard stable boy need to be handled with discretion?

Every discovery I make only leaves me with more questions. I set the letter aside and arrange the pieces of the broken amulet. They come together to form Andraste's holy symbol. Some little Andrastean somewhere is missing this right now. It's odd that Uncle Eamon would keep a broken necklace. He could just buy a new one. I'm sure the Chantry would even just give him one if he asked.

I open another drawer and find a pot of glue. I take out one of the older, more ragged quills and dip the feather end into the adhesive. I'm not sure how long I spend in that study, painstakingly brushing glue onto the silvery pieces, and holding things in place. When I finish, the moonlight has shifted quite a bit. Seems I've inherited my father's luck as well as his looks, because I've been in here a long while and haven't been caught.

I wrap the repaired amulet in the letter and slide it back under the vellum sheets where I found it. I put the glue pot away, and bury the quill in the dead embers of the fireplace. Uncle Eamon won't miss it.

The halls are quiet but for the rustling and snoring of the Guerrin's guests as I steal back to my room. I push the door open carefully, and my shock at seeing a lit lantern is nothing compared to the shock of seeing my father sitting up, waiting for me.

We stare at one another for what feels like an age. He gives no sense of what he's thinking or feeling, but why should he? He's the king, and has unreadable down to an art form while I'm fumbling and trying to make it work for me. "Um… why are you up?" I ask at last.

"I came to check on you, and when you weren't here I worried."

"I'm not a child anymore," I tell him with a smile.

"No, but you're still my son, and I can still be concerned about your well-being. And your whereabouts," he adds.

"Why didn't you come looking for me?" I ask him. The one time he vanished, nearly eleven years ago, I looked everywhere for him.

"I knew you'd come back," he says. "You're not a child anymore, you're right about that. And part of being your father means I have to step back and let you make your own choices sometimes." My father runs a hand over his hair and shifts in the chair. He waves me to come over and sit with him, and I perch on the edge of my bed. "I want to trust you to make good choices, Cailan," he tells me. "When the Maker wills me to leave this earth, I want to leave knowing my throne is in good hands."

I blink and my throat closes a little, because I don't like the thought of my father dying. "I'm not perfect," I tell him.

"Neither am I." He levels his gaze at me, but it feels like he's seeing through me. Or maybe he's seeing some of my mother in me. If King Maric haunts my conversations with people like Teagan, Queen Rowan haunts my conversations with my father. "Being king doesn't mean being perfect, but it means doing the best you can."

"And if you mess up?"

"You accept your mistakes and try to learn from them," he says. The lamp burns low and we sit in silence, the glass wall between us again. "I'm sorry," he says suddenly. He smiles. "This was a happy day, and now I've gone and spoiled it. It's just that you're growing so quickly. It makes me stop and think sometimes." He reaches out, and I get up and give him a hug. Even if he left me for a time when I was young, he is here for me—his son—now.

But alone in the dark, I think. The Deep Roads. Five-year-old boy wandering the castle at midnight. Can't find his father. Ten-year old-stable boy gets sent to the Chantry and has to keep silent about some huge secret. Things should fit, but they don't. I'm still missing pieces.


	6. Dream

**Apologies; I didn't plan this, and certainly not so quickly after this morning's upload of chapter 5. But it just sort of happened, and I had to do it. I'll also use this opportunity to thank those of you who have been reading and reviewing. I appreciate the kind comments, and that you take time to make them, so thank you so very much!**

_Chapter 6: Dream_

He walks through darkness so deep it threatens to swallow him. He carries memories. He carries grief. He looks for something he cannot find, because he does not yet know it is lost.

He wanders in shadows thicker than night. He wants to stop, he wants to sleep, but there is the need to find something. It leads him through the silent dark, takes him to places he's never been, all in the name of finding some lost part of himself. He does not call out. He does not cry. He plods forward, weary, wary.

When he no longer recognizes anything around him, he knows he has been swallowed whole. And yet he continues searching. There must be something, anything; a sign of some sort, a direction.

Nothing.

So he continues on in the silence. The ground is solid underfoot, but the darkness and shadow obscure the walls and ceilings. He could be in a massive cavern or a tiny tunnel barely big enough for him to fit through. He doesn't reach out to discover which of these perceptions is true. All that matters is moving forward. Always moving forward.

But he cannot keep going like this. The bleak blackness blights the spirit. It is more than one person can bear. He has reached his end and can go no further. He sits down in the darkness, cowering in the veil of shadow, and finally crying because he will never find what he's looking for.

Even the sound of heavy footsteps drawing nearer isn't enough to frighten him; he spent his emotions on the futile search.

Then there is bright and beautiful light that drives the shadows away like a sword.

And the voice. Not the one he wanted to hear, but its stern, gravelly timbre is familiar, and that is a small comfort.

"Come along, Cailan. The root cellar is no place for a young prince."


	7. Firstborn

_Chapter 7: Firstborn_

_And from it made his firstborn._  
><em>And he said…<em>  
><em>In My image I forge you<em>

_-Threnodies 5_

Loghain had a temper. Maric had known this from the first time they'd met in the hills over two decades ago. Loghain was a simmering volcano of a man. Even when he appeared calm and dormant the rage that the Orlesians had learned to fear was always below the surface.

So Maric considered himself lucky that Loghain had not yet erupted, and even more lucky that Cailan was not in the room. If his son had been present, Maric was pretty certain he'd have to get on producing a new heir. "He's sixteen, Loghain," he repeated.

"And old enough to be responsible, keep his promises, and answer for his actions!" The Teyrn's pale eyes were a stark contrast to his rage-reddened cheeks, and he turned away as if he couldn't stand to look at Maric. It was probably a trick of the light streaming in the window behind him, but Maric thought Loghain might have had steam curling out his ears.

"A promise we made for him?" Maric asked quietly. Loghain wheeled back around, the twin braids that framed his face whipping through the air. "Don't look at me like that. You know he had no say in any of it."

"It's what we needed to do to secure the kingdom."

"He was a child. They were both children."

"He's the crown prince," Loghain corrected. "And I will remind you that several appropriate matches have all but begged Anora and me to reconsider, and yet she remains faithful."

Maric leaned his elbows on his desk and rubbed at his eyes. Why had he even mentioned to Loghain that Cornelia had spied Cailan kissing one of the serving girls in a back hallway? He supposed it was because sharing those stories, and ruefully laughing over the fact that their children were growing too quickly, was the sort of thing one did with a friend. And while Loghain had been the best, and often only, friend Maric had, there were some things that he just couldn't see past.

Like Maric and Cailan's "royal responsibility."

While he hadn't been pleased with Cornelia's news, part of Maric hadn't been surprised, mostly because Cailan _was_ just sixteen. If Moira the Rebel Queen had known just how many young women Maric had stolen a kiss from at the age of sixteen, she would have been even more displeased with her son than she usually was.

"And you plan to do what about this, exactly?" Loghain asked, fixing his cold glare on Maric. Maric looked up at Loghain, expression blank. "My daughter's honor is at stake."

The years hadn't dulled Loghain's temper, and they hadn't dulled his flair for dramatics, either. "Maker's breath, Loghain, they grabbed a quick snog in the servants' halls," Maric snapped. "They're not tumbling in the hay stacks."

"Or an infirmary tent," Loghain retorted under his breath.

Silence.

"Or the Deep Roads," Maric finally said.

Silence.

"You're a fine one to speak about a tumble in the Deep Roads," Loghain said at last.

Maric winced. "I know. I took it too far. My apologies." And he meant it. "I see your concerns, and I will speak with Cailan about them. But you need to understand that he's a boy, and his 'betrothed' isn't with him constantly to remind him that they are indeed betrothed."

"Out of sight out of mind, then?" Loghain said with a 'humph' that sounded more like an angry bull than a man. "Shall I have Anora sent to Denerim for a stay, then? To remind him of his commitment?"

"You're not his father, Loghain. You deal with your daughter; let me deal with my son. Besides, do you know everything Anora does back in Gwaren during your longer stints here in Denerim?"

Loghain reddened again. His eyebrows furrowed and his eyes were deeply shadowed, and he glowered at down at Maric in the very likeness of an ogre. "How dare you impugn my daughter."

"I'm not trying to insinuate anything," Maric said, growing cross with his oldest friend's self-righteousness. "But they're _both_ young people. And even though they have their roles and the commitment _we _made _for_ them, maybe we should look at them for the people they are, and are becoming."

"They are the people who will continue the tradition of free Ferelden," Loghain said, still glowering, but less red. "I know he's a boy," he finally admitted. "But he's a boy with responsibilities, and one of those responsibilities is remaining faithful to the betrothal that's been arranged."

Maric knew he was going to cross the line even before he did it. He could see it coming, as if he was on a runaway horse galloping toward a high stone wall with no sign of stopping. And in the typical manner that he'd never quite outgrown, he kept going. "Because, based on our own history, betrothal has worked out so well."

* * *

><p>Loghain's eruption was so violent Cailan felt it as well as heard it. He jumped away from the cracked door, his heart racing and his ears ringing while his face burned with shame for having had the stones to eavesdrop. He hustled down the hallway, glancing back to make sure Loghain wasn't stalking after him. He wouldn't put it past the Teyrn to come after him and throttle him with his own battle-hardened hands.<p>

The words _tumble in the Deep Roads_ repeated in Cailan's ears more loudly than the rush of blood, and the further he got from his father's offices the more he was able to calm himself. His father had defended him, even when Loghain was raging like a dragon woken from hibernation. It softened Cailan a bit, which only reminded him of the hard shell he'd been forming. He wasn't sure exactly when it started, but he couldn't deny that he had a grudge against his father. It coiled in his stomach like a snake, squeezing more and more tightly as time went by. It strangled his innocence, forcing him to see the truth that his father was not the man he'd grown up thinking he was. And though Maric had not changed in his treatment of his son, and had in fact shown himself more loving and more fatherly as Cailan grew, he still felt the growing grudge.

He paused to catch his breath. So Maric the Savior left his young son to wander the dark corridors of the castle so he could have a tumble in the Deep Roads, did he? And Loghain knew about it?

"My Lord?" Cailan looked up to see Aubrey standing before him in the back hallways he found himself in now. She clasped her hands behind her back, intending to look demure, but it had the effect of pushing her breasts forward. Cailan seemed to notice things like that a lot more lately. She looked up at him through her red-gold eyelashes, her blue-green eyes deep and mysterious. Cailan found it strange and alluring how Aubrey could be such a mix of colors, and it made her exotic in his mind even though she was a servant. "Does something trouble you, Highness? I apologize if it's not my place, but… you look vexed." She stared at the stone floor, those reddish lashes fluttering and her pale red hair falling over her face like a curtain while her pointed ears blushed pink.

Cailan abandoned all thoughts of his father and of Loghain. All that mattered was the young woman before him. Or was it girl? He had no idea how old Aubrey was, and it didn't matter. He was the prince. Before he really knew what he was doing he reached for her, one hand on the small of her back, pulling her close. She tried to speak but he held his fingers to her lips. He brushed her shining hair behind her ears, locked his eyes on her rosy, full lips. Her pale cheeks flushed, but Cailan was aware of the act. Aubrey wasn't known for being truly innocent, but Cailan couldn't make himself care.

He bent his head and met her warm, soft lips, which gave way to her warm tongue. There was something about the taste of her tongue that tantalized him, because Anora had never let him kiss her this way. He'd reasoned that they were betrothed and would be married eventually, and thus were a pair in the Maker's sight. But damn her prudence, she allowed him no more than the occasional peck on the cheek, and even more rarely, a kiss on the lips.

Cailan forced Aubrey around and pushed her against the stone wall. She grunted slightly and he felt her breath on his upper lip and kissed her harder. He pressed her against the stone, one hand on the soft place on the back of her neck, the other cupping her breast. He moved his thumb over the flesh and she shuddered. Her hands clutched at his linen shirt, pulling him even closer. One hand drifted down to cup between his legs and he inhaled sharply. Cailan angled his hips into her grasp and slid his hand down to her rounded backside to pull her closer to him. Anora never gave him this. Anora was sweet and smart and kind, and as cold as Lake Calenhad in the winter. Beautiful, but distant.

Aubrey massaged his crotch and it was his turn to grunt and he channeled all his anger into kissing her, one hand kneading her chest and the other holding her head to him. Her breath hissed through her nostrils with each inhale, and her clever hand made him stand to beneath his fitted breeches. He kept one hand on her breast, and the other drifted between her legs. Aubrey obliged by hitching up her rough spun skirts, and he felt the damp beneath her smallclothes. No, Anora definitely never let him do this.

That was it. He resented Anora for being so prim. He resented his father for keeping secrets, and Loghain for letting his father do that. And the both of them for arranging his life without involving him in the decisions.

Aubrey took his fury for passion and undid the tie on his trousers. Cailan felt Aubrey's other hand on his wrist. Aubrey guiding his hand under the band of her small clothes. Aubrey all warm around him.

A bit later, Aubrey slumped against his shoulder, gasping. "I trust I don't have to impress upon you the need for silence?" Cailan's voice was husky and he bit her earlobe hard enough for her to shudder and gasp a little bit. "I fear my father might not approve."

"Because I'm a servant," she said, and her voice was far more dejected than it should have been, considering she'd just been with a prince.

"Because I'm promised to someone else," he told her, tilting her chin so she could face him. Of course she averted her eyes. "I enjoy this, but enjoy is all we can do."

Aubrey smiled, even as her cheeks flushed. "I understand, my lord. And if you enjoy it, then I am most flattered." She pulled away from him, ducking out of the cage formed by his arms, like water through a sieve. "If there is any other way I may serve you, you need only ask," she said, batting her lashes before she scurried away, her high-pitched giggle haunting the back corridor.

Cailan returned to his rooms and washed up, noting the pink tinge to his cheeks and the spark in his blue eyes that Anora was never able to call forth. He felt powerful. He felt virile. He almost felt bad for Anora Mac Tir, but if it was because she didn't excite him, or because he found excitement elsewhere, he didn't know.

* * *

><p>"Cailan?"<p>

He heard his father's voice, saw the light slice across the rug on the floor. But he kept his eyes mostly closed, kept his breathing steady. Heard his father's sigh. Saw a fuzzy shadow in his doorway, but still pretended to sleep.

"I'm sorry, son," Maric said. "For many things."

Cailan listened to his father's voice drifting across the room and it was all he could do to stay lying down, though his fists clenched at the pillow.

"I don't know what you've been angry about, but channel your anger in the right place," Maric said before the door closed, bathing Cailan in darkness again.

Cailan sat up then, silently hurling all manner of curses at his father's invisible, retreating back. Damn it all, why couldn't Maric actually apologize to Cailan's face? Why did it take eavesdropping and meaningless hallway trysts to make his father apologize for mistakes made a decade ago? Why did it take Loghain's tirades to make Maric pay attention to his son's less than favorable behavior?

Why did it take his father's apology make Cailan feel so rotten within?

He turned over in his bed and faced the darkened wall. Cailan hoped his father's 'tumble in the Deep Roads' had been worth as much as his own tumble in the hallway. And he hoped his father was miserable over it. It was only fair.


	8. Errant Letters

**Chapter 8: Errant Letters**

_Bloomingtide, 9:20 Dragon_

_From His Grace Arl Eamon Guerrin of Redcliffe_

_To His Royal Majesty King Maric Theirin_

Dearest Brother-in-Law,

I received your missive and confess myself confused and a tad uncertain about your motives in this matter. While I am as aware as anyone that it has been two years since my sister's untimely passing, to learn of this matter raises some questions and uncertainties. You know as well as anybody in Ferelden what we fought to overcome, and how hard we continue to fight to appear legitimate in the eyes of other Thedosian nations. Should this come to light, Rowan would appear no better than a concubine. As her husband I'm certain that is the last thing you want. The other issue concerns your son Cailan, offspring of the King and his rightful Queen in the sight of the Maker. Certainly you do not wish to jeopardize Cailan's legitimacy.

At the same time I acknowledge that I am ever a faithful servant of the crown. If this is your request of me, I shall take the child and see to it he is raised quietly in Redcliffe. On my life as your subject, and as the brother of your deceased wife, not even my own beloved Isolde shall know the truth.

I advise you to reply quickly so that we may sort the matter before the child gets too old to pass off as one gotten on a maid or serving girl who passed in childbirth.

Ever your servant,

Arl Eamon Guerrin of Redcliffe

* * *

><p><em>Kingsway 9:11 Dragon<em>

_To His Royal Highness King Maric "The Savior":_

_Our mutual friend is pleased to know that the boy has been placed safely and hopes he grows old, living a life of his own making. She sends her regards. I will share more at a convenient time that is mutually agreeable to us the next time Warden business finds me in Denerim._

_Ever Your Servant and Friend,_

_Ferelden Warden-Commander Duncan_

* * *

><p><em>Haring, 9:12 Dragon<em>

_From His Grace Arl Eamon Guerrin of Redcliffe_

_To His Royal Majesty King Maric Theirin_

Dearest Brother-in-Law,

I wonder if you chose me for this task because it would seem less suspicious for the king to send regular missives to his brother-in-law than to anyone else. But I try the bounds of propriety, and apologize if I have offended you.

He grows well and appears happy and normal. Each day he grows and changes, and I find myself realizing why you would want him far from Denerim. Looking at you and Cailan, I am amazed at the astounding nature of the Theirin traits. Though I suppose I see it because of what I know, and because of the relationship our families shared.

Isolde has had a difficult time warming to the boy. She means him no harm, but I doubt she will ever see herself as a mother to him, especially given the secret of his true identity.

Maker keep you well and continue to bless your reign,

Arl Eamon Guerrin of Redcliffe

* * *

><p>Wintersend, 9:13 Dragon<p>

Maric,

It was lovely to spend time with you and your son during the holiday celebration. Cailan is your very likeness, though I see much of my older sister in him. He is the best of the both of you. This uncle couldn't be prouder.

Always,

Teagan Guerrin, Bann of Rainesfere

P.S. Please stop trying to marry me off.

* * *

><p>8th Cloudreach, 9:15 Dragon<p>

His Grace Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir of Gwaren to His Royal Majesty King Maric Theirin:

Your son will be a credit to the line of Calenhad the Great. He progresses well with his studies, from what I observed during my last stay in Denerim, and seems to harbor no ill after-effects after your trip five years ago. He is bright, and while he is the likeness of you, he carries much of Rowan in him as well.

But as you are well aware, the Orlesians still wish to reclaim their "lost territory". We both know this can_not_ happen under any circumstances, and must strive to unite the land and stand against future attempts to usurp our country. To that end, I propose an alliance. In our day, the Arl of Redcliffe betrothed his daughter, Rowan, to you in order to make a strong match that would stand as the symbol of a united front against the usurpers. Now, in our current time, you are the Savior of Ferelden; I, Hero of the River Dane. My daughter Anora is a quick study who often gives her tutors pause, and Gwaren is the third largest city in Ferelden. A betrothal between your son and my daughter would be more than an adequate political match: it would tell Orlais that The Savior stands with the Hero of River Dane, and they intend to remain united.

The decision is yours as the king; but as your friend and Ferelden's general, Cailan and Anora would be a force to be reckoned with when our own paths of glory lead but to the grave.

Ever your servant and friend,

Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir of Gwaren

* * *

><p>17th Solace, 9:15 Dragon<p>

Dear Maric,

It was a true honor to have you come to dine in Highever. Fergus was pleased to meet you, and wants to be just like you when he runs the Teyrnir one day. While every father hopes his son aspires to be like him, I'll not fault Fergus for aspiring to be like his King.

Eleanor and I have considered your proposal, and at this time we respectfully decline. We don't wish to bring you offense or impugn Prince Cailan's honor—far from it. Even Rendon Howe has already intimated that a betrothal might unite Highever and Amaranthine into a massive coastal power. Having fought at the side of both you and Rendon, and considering you both honorable men and good friends, I've decided to think of my daughter's needs for the time being. It is difficult to picture her as a prince's future wife when she is seven years old, and constantly getting in more trouble than a Mabari puppy.

If it is not too bold to say, you may wish to consult with Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir on the matter. His Anora is quite lovely, and will approach marriageable age far sooner than Fianna will.

Please accept my sincerest apologies, and know that you are welcome in Highever at any time. The Couslands remain always your most devoted subjects.

Sincerely,

Bryce Cousland, Teyrn of Highever

* * *

><p><em>Justinian, 9:16 Dragon<em>

_To His Royal Highness King Maric "The Savior":_

_Apologies for the long absence in my writing. The Deep Roads we traveled have become more than overrun. It seems like so long ago, rather than the six brief years. Bownammar, home of the Legion of the Dead, fell to darkspawn three years ago. My Wardens have been exploring for any signs of the Architect and a new Blight, but so far there is nothing definitive to report. I shall keep you in the know about this, as word from Weisshaupt confirms that no other nation in Thedas has experienced darkspawn movements as great as Ferelden has in the last decade._

_But I forget myself; such matters are better left to letters purely of business. I write for personal reasons, intending to inform you that I recently traveled through Redcliffe. I espied a healthy boy of six who favors mud puddles, frogs, and snakes. He inquired about my blades, and proclaimed that some day he too would fight darkspawn. Though he spoke with childish innocence, I can only imagine what reaction such a statement might evoke in our mutual friend._

_Hopefully Warden business will lead me to Denerim soon. It has been far too long since we last sat and spoke as old friends, and I should like very much to see your other son._

_Ever Your Servant and Friend,_

_Ferelden Warden-Commander Duncan_

* * *

><p><em>August, 9:19 Dragon<em>

_From His Grace Arl Eamon Guerrin of Redcliffe_

_To His Royal Majesty King Maric Theirin_

Dearest Brother-in-Law,

You are lucky Isolde is fond of entertaining her King, otherwise she may grow suspicious of your frequent visits. Suspicion and intrigue run thick in Orlesian blood, for she believes the boy to be my bastard son; why else would the Arl of Redcliffe look to the needs of an orphan? I've explained that sometimes you must do the right thing, but she wanted to hear nothing of it.

While I know the Landsmeet is around the corner, you may wish to visit Redcliffe again in the near future. Isolde and I have been trying very hard for an heir, and should it come to pass, she intends to send the boy to the Chantry to be raised as a templar. He'd have gone already had I not convinced Isolde that he would be a better holy warrior than brother. He has a smart mouth on him. But the templars take initiates later than the brothers do, so I've been able to continue watching the boy. The youngest they will take him is ten years of age. By the coming Wintersend, he will be a ward of the Chantry. There is precious little I can do to stop this course of action without jeopardizing the secret you entrusted to me. I leave the matter in your capable hands.

Maker keep you well and continue to bless your reign,

Arl Eamon Guerrin of Redcliffe

* * *

><p>Drakonis, 9:20 Dragon<p>

Maric, thought you'd like to read this. – Eamon

_Guardian, 9:20 Dragon_

_Your Grace Arl Eamon Guerrin,_

_Your ward seems to be adjusting passing well. Certainly there were hurdles as we attempted to institute his daily routine with studies and training, but those were overcome. He is a pleasant youth, though prone to pertness. We pray to the Maker for patience, for he is just a bastard child who was not raised to know any better. Should you wish, we will keep you apprised of his progress on a regular basis._

_Sincerely yours,_

_Mother Beatrix_

PS, If you'd like me to receive updates and then forward them to you, please let me know and I will do so. –Eamon

* * *

><p>Haring, 9:21 Dragon<p>

Father:

I know.

-Cailan.


	9. Confession

_Chapter 9: Confession_

By the time his father finds the letter, Cailan hopes he will know. And if he doesn't, he hopes his father will confront him about it. He wants Maric to explain. He wants his father to act. He wants to cross the chasm between them.

Since they returned from Redcliffe the time before last, his father has seemed older and wearier, and Cailan is certain it is from the weight of his secrets. Cailan feels it, building within him like a corruption that will overtake him if he leaves it unchecked. It squeezes and spreads and some days he is afraid his father will see the foulness overflowing from him.

He avoids his father now.

Meals are quiet affairs, when King Maric can be torn from his work in the study. Loghain comes to Denerim, and he brings Anora more frequently. Cailan takes meals with her, makes polite conversation. She talks about Gwaren's trade, and the state of their port, third largest after Amaranthine and Highever. She tells him about the state of Ferelden as a whole, and how she would see a Landsmeet run, if she were allowed to be so bold. There is something wistful in her cornflower-blue eyes when she says this. She thinks of being Queen and thinks of action. He thinks of being King and hopes Anora doesn't see his skin blanch.

They walk the gardens, the summer air bringing the scent of roses. Anora stands straight and tall, as if she's never slumped a day in her life. Cailan imagines her in the castle at Gwaren, out of sight of her father and her retinue of tutors, back perfectly straight as she walks the halls or the grounds. She exudes confidence the way he absorbs secrets and insecurities and he wishes he could be more like her. Andraste's arse. His father probably wishes Cailan could be more like Anora. And certainly Loghain thinks he could be more like Anora.

All Loghain sees now is a younger version of Maric, who must be watched as carefully, lest he run off to the Deep Roads or somewhere else irresponsible. Like the warm arms and pleasant hands of Aubrey, or another young woman. Somewhere Cailan doesn't have to think.

"Do you ever tire of people comparing you to your father?" Cailan asks, breaking the sunset silence.

Anora shakes her head. She used to wear her long blonde hair loose, but now weaves it into tight braids coiled at the nape of her neck. Cailan wants to unfetter that hair, let it free, as if that could free Anora. Everything about her, even her smile, is restrained. "My father is a great man. If Ferelden's highest nobility wishes to compare me to him, I can only be complimented." She turns her eyes on him and he feels the three-year gap between their ages keenly. "Why do you ask?"

Cailan pauses and thinks. Why indeed. Perhaps because he is lonely. Perhaps because he and Anora are betrothed, and there should be a relationship of some sort. Maybe because if he does not tell someone, he will burst. "I'm not just my father's son," he says at last.

Anora's tinkling giggle elicits a frown from Cailan. "Of course not. You are your mother's son as well. Did you think were plucked from the Fade?"

The dark stain spreads. "I mean everyone looks at me and sees another Maric. I don't want to be another Maric, I want to be Cailan."

She stares at him and he can see her thoughts formulating in her brilliant mind. He is just another logic problem to be solved. And the darkness grows. "Your father did great things, Cailan," she says at last. "He saved our country and made it our own again. He serves as a reminder of hope and perseverance in the face of great adversity. Why wouldn't you want to be like him?"

The reasons flounder in the darkness like drowning swimmers. Anora is his friend; his betrothed; his future wife. He should be able to talk to her. And yet she looks at him as if he is addled as a templar off his lyrium for suggesting he doesn't want to be like Maric. And then he thinks of another boy also locked into a future he has no say in, who will become addled by lyrium.

"My father left the country to fend for itself so he could go exploring the Deep Roads," Cailan says at last, and she nods because she knows this. Of course she does; Loghain would have told her in his lessons on how to be a competent ruler. He would have presented Maric's decision to abandon his country as incompetent. "He also never told me he was going."

"Cailan, this was over ten years ago," she says gently, reaching out a pale hand. He shies away from her touch. "You were so young."

"How did you feel when you were young and your father spent all his time in Denerim?"

She crosses her arms over her chest and shrugs one shoulder. "I didn't. Feel anything, that is. It was always understood that if Father was in Denerim, it was because he was needed. I grew up accepting my father did what was necessary for the good of Ferelden," she adds.

_And you should accept that your father does the same_, she implies.

"I think I have a half brother," he says, unable to stem the spreading stain of secrecy any longer.

If possible, Anora looks even paler. She's always been fair, never out in the sun; she is a consummate noblewoman. Her eyes narrow, her lips press into a bloodless line, and her hands tremble. Even in anger she is restrained. "If you were anyone other than the King's son you'd be accused of treason," she hisses through clenched teeth, eyes darting around to make sure no one is nearby, no errant ears around to overhear. She grabs his hand, but the touch is not affectionate. She crushes his fingers together as she drags him to the far corner of the gardens, and when she speaks again her voice is barely a whisper. "How can you say something like that about your father?"

Cailan realizes he was fooling himself, thinking he'd find comfort in Anora. She looks at him like a silly child who tries her patience. "I knew I shouldn't have told you."

She still stands straight and firm and when she looks at him there is so much of her father in her that Cailan shivers a bit. For a fleeting moment he fears she will share his confession with her father. And then he realizes with a sharp pang that Loghain probably already knows.

He whispers what he knows to her and to her credit, Anora does not interrupt. She listens, those chill blue eyes never warming. When he finishes she is as unresponsive as ice. He looks at her, begging her to say something. Anything. "He could have been anybody's bastard, or even just an orphan," she says at last and Cailan's heart splashes into the darkness inside of him.

"He's five years younger than me," Cailan protests. "My father went into the Deep Roads when I was five. I overheard…someone mention things that happened down there," he says, catching himself before revealing that he has eavesdropped on her father.

Anora smoothes her skirts and collects her thoughts. "Even if you do have a half brother, what would you do about him?" she asks, practical as always. "And if he knew who he was, it's likely he would try to exploit that relationship. Do you want that hanging over your reign?"

"My father may have had another child!" Cailan says, and his raised voice draws Anora's angry glare. "Don't you ever get lonely all alone in Gwaren?" he asks in a softer voice.

"I do, but I find ways to occupy my time," she says. "My tutors keep me well-supplied. And if you are growing lonely here in Denerim, you've only to ask and your father will send you to Gwaren, or Highever or Amaranthine. You are not nearly as trapped as you believe, Cailan," she says. He searches her face in the fading light, but she gives no indication that Loghain has mentioned Cailan's hallway trysts to her. "Concentrate on a viable solution to your problem, rather than creating drama that would be treason coming from anyone else."

Her tone implies the conversation is over. Cailan wants nothing more than to storm off, maybe take his horse, Strider, for a long gallop outside Denerim city limits. He wants to be alone, even though he has just complained of being lonely.

But he acknowledges Anora's advice with a nod and a pleasant smile that takes a great effort to paste on. He offers her his arm, but she declines, and they walk back to the palace in harsh, separate silence.

Inside, he is drowning.


	10. Undercover Brother

_Chapter 10: Undercover Brother_

"I confess, highness, this is highly unusual," Revered Mother Boann said, smoothing her flyaway red hair. Though she maintained composure, Cailan could tell she was nervous, so he smiled to put her at ease. His stomach was a pit of writhing, crawling insects even as his sky blue eyes shone with confidence.

"I understand, of course," he said. "However, Brother Severus has been _so_ insistent I crack down and write this essay on the templar order," he said, rolling his eyes skyward. Mother Boann gave a chuckle disguised as a 'humph'. Brother Severus's reputation preceded him, which Cailan had been counting on. "He also seems to think I'm unwilling to go above and beyond, and it would be _so_ satisfying to prove him wrong," Cailan added with a grin. He ran a hand over his long blond hair, shining in the sunlight streaming through the window, and ducked his head apologetically while he watched the Revered Mother. She was thinking, he could tell. She had that look Anora got when she was skeptical, but didn't have anything to go on other than a feeling. Cailan had spent years learning how to dodge Anora's 'thinking looks'. Could a Revered Mother be so different?

The woman before him finally sighed, though she was trying not to smile. "Normally such a request would go through the Grand Cleric. However, such requests do not always come from the Crown Prince of Ferelden," she said, and Cailan bowed his head in quiet humility. She chuckled outright this time. "And Maker bless old Brother Severus. If this helps you get his goat I can think of a fair few in this Chantry alone who would applaud you. Come along, Highness."

Cailan's relieved laugh was just a bit too loud, but the Mother didn't notice. Or if she did, she thought he was nervous about one-upping Brother Severus. He had to stop over-analyzing every move he made. Otherwise, he would freeze up at the least opportune moment. Loghain had taught him that during an impromptu lesson on battle strategies. "Have a plan, but be ready to change at a moment's notice," he'd said in that gravelly voice that made him sound perpetually angry. "The temptation is to over think everything. I call it 'analysis paralysis.'" He'd given an uncharacteristic laugh. "But you must be ready to act even without a plan."

It was sound advice, and sometimes Cailan missed the Teyrn's spur of the moment lessons. Though Loghain came to Denerim often, he hadn't had time for Cailan since he'd learned of Cailan's… wandering eyes. _Not like he was never sixteen, going on seventeen,_ Cailan thought, swallowing against the bitterness and keeping his carefree smile pasted on. Too bad the Teyrn was so tight-lipped about his past. Cailan was sure if he dug deeply enough he'd find _something_ on him.

Revered Mother Boann paused before a heavy oak door and rapped on it with calloused knuckles. She bid Cailan enter. "Knight Commander Tavish," she said. "His Highness Prince Cailan wishes a look at the inner workings of the templar order."

Tavish looked surprisingly young for a Knight Commander. Though he sat behind his desk working his way through stacks of vellum scrolls, he was clad in full plate armor. When he rose, the rich maroon half-robes swished about his armor-clad legs. He tucked his longish light brown hair behind his ears and though he smiled in polite greeting, his eyes were tired. "This is an unexpected honor, Highness," he said with a bow so low his nose touched a pile of scrolls.

"Please, Knight Commander, the honor is mine," Cailan said. He related his tale of woe regarding Brother Severus. Tavish laughed aloud and nodded before exiting his office, gesturing for Cailan to follow. Cailan was happy to comply, if only so Tavish didn't see his look of relief, or catch the way his step faltered from the nerves that turned his legs to jelly.

Mother Boann took her leave as the trio stood at the head of a long stone corridor. "It was a pleasure to meet you in person, Highness," she said. "If you'll excuse me, I've Alienage matters to attend to. I'm the only one who ministers there, unfortunately. By your leave, Highness." Cailan nodded in farewell, and then he was alone with Tavish.

"So old Brother Severus is still at it," Tavish said, and Cailan nodded. Tavish chuckled. "He's an excellent tutor; I'm not surprised the King took him on as your instructor. But we were glad to see him go," he said with a grin. Cailan almost found the man… likeable. "So what do you need to know about the order?"

Cailan raised his eyebrows, smiled, and shrugged just enough to look apologetic. "Whatever you can tell me, really," he said, even though he'd thoroughly researched templar training methods in the palace's extensive library. That had been another of Loghain's tips to him: always know more than your opponent, but don't let your opponent know that. He knew that templars were essentially mage hunters, no matter what the Chantry might say. He'd read about the mana disruption techniques and was pretty sure his conjecture about the lyrium dependence was correct. As Tavish talked on about templar history, which he didn't know Cailan already knew, Cailan wondered how often someone like Tavish would have to take lyrium to avoid the madness of withdrawal.

"Excuse me, Ser," Cailan piped up in a break from Tavish's lecture. They had passed by several classrooms, each one disappointingly empty. "But I wondered if it might be at all possible to see some templar training in person." Tavish's brown eyes landed on him and Cailan fought to keep his 'clueless fool' façade from faltering. "Not that the history isn't fascinating," he added. "But I think seeing some of the theory in application would help me understand the role of the order in the kingdom." It wasn't entirely a lie. Cailan always told Brother Severus, and Maric, when confronted with disappointing reports from the tutor, that he only really 'got it' when the knowledge was applied. What good was theory when you didn't know what to do with it? That was why he liked Loghain's lessons best, few and far between as they were.

Tavish regarded him for what felt like forever. Cailan stood his ground, though it was difficult with the stern templar's gaze searching him. He reminded himself that he was the Prince of Ferelden, son of Maric the Savior, and as such had certain rights. But then there was the possibility that another son of Maric the Savior was also here and could not claim those rights, and Cailan nearly wilted. Tavish didn't notice, thank the Maker. "I suppose you have a valid point, Highness," he said. "It is a fine day, so the initiates will likely be out in the fields."

The outdoor air was refreshing after the oppressive atmosphere of the Chantry's halls, and Cailan felt himself relax in the summer sun. They paused at a fenced-in sparring arena, where a line of boys and girls, all with the gangly awkwardness of pre-teenaged years, stood before a lecturing templar. This far away Cailan couldn't hear exactly what the man was saying, but it didn't matter. He squinted in the bright light and moved around Tavish to get a bit closer.

The children stood at some semblance of attention. Some had their eyes closed; Cailan would bet his birthright they were letting the sweet summer air color their daydreams of freedom. A couple watched the straw dummy before them as if it was a dangerous maleficar they had cornered. They shifted their weight, and the sharpness in their eyes made Cailan glad he wasn't a mage. "What are they learning?" he asked, still scanning the line.

"Holy Smite," Tavish said. "It's one of the first skills a templar learns. It tends to knock down a mage pretty quickly, which is good because if a templar's cornered an apostate, she's not going to let him get close enough to use weapons before she breaks out the spells."

Cailan watched, fascinated, as each child stepped forward. He moved closer to get a look at them in turn. "Focus, Talrew," the templar at the center of the ring said, and the boy closed his eyes for a moment. Only the slightest quirk of his eyebrows told Cailan he'd done anything. The straw practice dummy looked like it had been hit only by a small breeze. "If that had been a mage," Tavish said, so close Cailan nearly jumped, "it'd be writhing on the ground."

One by one the children took their turns focusing their willpower to smite the dummy. Cailan would have been annoyed if any of his weapons masters had him doing such an exercise: working so hard with nothing to show for it. Some of the children's efforts were met with the approval of their trainer; others, the templar merely shook his head and motioned them back in line.

The second to last child stepped up, a gangly boy that Cailan knew was roughly twelve years of age. His blond hair was darker, and worn short and spiky; but the three years since they'd last met had enhanced the resemblance between them. He found he was holding his breath as the other boy stared the dummy down.

"Continue your focusing exercises, Alistair," the trainer said after several moments. "We'll try again tomorrow."

"I've been working at them, Ser," Alistair said. "Let me try once more." Alistair closed his eyes and furrowed his brow, and nothing happened. He clenched his jaw and balled his fists, and still nothing.

"Alistair, it is Erhyn's turn," the trainer said, glancing over to a haughty, dark-haired girl who was tapping her foot in the dust.

"I can do this," Alistair said, staring at the dummy with a frightened look on his face. Could he possibly be scared of the dummy? Cailan wondered. He found he was holding his breath, willing Alistair on.

The training templar sighed. "Enough," he said, reaching for Alistair's arm.

"I said I can do this!" Alistair exclaimed, whipping about to face the templar, who fell into the dust without being pushed. Alistair paled beneath his sun-browned skin and his eyes went wide.

Cailan glanced between Alistair and Tavish, who was tapping his chin thoughtfully. "He'll be good, if he can learn to control his emotions," Tavish said.

Cailan kept a straight face the best he could, but inside he was laughing. Laughing because Alistair had gotten the better of his trainer; because snotty Erhyn wasn't getting her turn; because controlling emotions was something Theirin males did as well as keeping their mouths shut. Seeing the boy in action, Cailan had no doubt that Alistair was as much Maric's son as he was. He was swelling inside thinking of it, and try as he might, he could not conceal his smile.

Cailan watched the line of young initiates file out of the ring. Tavish glanced over at the prince. "Something amusing, Highness?"

He shook his head. "No. Just… thinking of how surprised Brother Severus will be when I give him such a well-researched paper."

Though it was clear Tavish wanted to head back, Cailan made a point of leaning against the fence, soaking up the sunlight and asking questions to stall for time. The double line of pre-teen initiates was cresting the hill as Tavish ticked off some of the other skills of a templar: Cleanse, Righteous Strike, Mental Fortress… all designed to drain mana and incapacitate a mage, so the templar could get close enough to kill it.

Cailan watched the children pass him, some glancing furtively as others' eyes went wide when they recognized him. He was seventeen and knew about war, and his father's role in the rebellion. He knew being king sometimes meant doling out death. But he didn't like the thought of doing it. He liked even less the thought that his brother was being trained to take the life of a person he had first crippled.

There were an uneven number of initiates, and as such, Alistair was alone at the back of the line. He dragged his feet, stirring up clouds of dust and staring at the ground before him so that he didn't even see Cailan. He shuffled by, cheeks red, focused on whatever punishment he was likely to receive for his accidental smite. Cailan nodded to Tavish that he was ready to go, and Tavish headed to the front of the line to speak with the trainer. Cailan fell into slow step beside Alistair. "Nice smite," he murmured.

Alistair looked up at Cailan and he thought the younger boy might pass out. "It was an accident, Highness, honest."

"Alistair," Cailan said, and several emotions passed over the boy's face before he settled on being pleasantly, suspiciously surprised that that the Prince of Ferelden remembered his name. "Please, just call me Cailan."

"Why?"

"Because it's the right thing to do," Cailan said. He glanced up to see Tavish waiting for him at the gate, and laid a hand on Alistair's shoulder. "Look. I remember you saying you didn't know who your father was," he said, and Alistair looked away. Cailan realized it wasn't the most tactful way to approach what he wanted to say. He felt Tavish's aura of impatience as strongly as he would a Holy Smite. "I mean that if anyone could see what you did today, a father or… a brother… he'd probably think you'd done a good job."

Alistair glanced back at Cailan, a hint of a smile playing about his lips. This close, Cailan could see the same angles of the cheekbones, the same structure of the jaw, same line of the nose that he saw in every looking glass. "I'll remember that when they send me to bed without supper for smiting a knight," Alistair said before running to catch up with the others, while Cailan was stopped by Knight Commander Tavish.

Tavish rolled his eyes. "That boy's sarcasm will be the death of him," he said. "I apologize for his impertinence. Rest assured, he will be punished."

Cailan shook his head. "Be lenient. He's just a boy, and it was just an accident."

Tavish nodded once in assent. "As your Highness wishes. Though such leniency only encourages his smart mouth."

Cailan smiled and shrugged apologetically, and maintained his own silence. It was an impressive feat, for after all, Theirin males weren't known for keeping their mouths shut. But it was something Cailan was progressively getting better at doing. He reached into his pocket. "You've been extremely helpful, Ser Tavish," he said, handing a few gold sovereigns over to the Knight Commander. "I can show myself out, and hope the Chantry will appreciate the donation to her services, as much as I appreciate her silence?"

Tavish stared at the gold in his hand, and for a moment Cailan was terrified, especially when the man smiled and handed the coin back. "Your charity is appreciated, Highness, but your secret's safe with us." Cailan's sigh was audible. "Any chance to one-up old Severus is a chance worth taking." He laughed and showed Cailan out anyway, and the prince found he could only reply with nods, smiles, and shrugs. He didn't trust his voice, so he kept quiet.

Which, considering he was a Theirin male, was impressive.


	11. Masquerade

_Chapter 11: Masquerade_

You watch the fireworks from the balcony while a chamber orchestra plays a lively tune behind you. Anora stands beside you, but there is a chasm separating the two of you, and you caused it. It doesn't matter; now that you've officially come of age in the eyes of the kingdom the betrothal is an imminent marriage. Somehow more formal. Something you look on with the sense of impending doom of the condemned convict even as the country erupts in celebration in your honor.

You turn to your father, instead. He is resplendent in his formalwear, and were it not for the deep lines that worry has etched into his face, he could possibly pass for your older brother. But you are an only child; at least, that's what you've been led to believe. As the city, and perhaps the entire nation, celebrates your coming of age, you still debate how, when, and where to confront your father on the truth you've gathered in pieces over the last few years. And wonder if it would be worth it.

He catches you watching him and smiles. There is a spark of pride in his deep blue eyes that you don't deserve. Your secrets have spread like a plague, infecting you and your relationships with the people you are closest to; and the worst part is, they don't realize it. So you try to smile back at your father, try to be attentive to Anora, try to ignore the icy glares her father, Loghain, bestows upon you. If your secrets are your infection, his grudges are his.

The music dies down and the last explosions echo across the night sky. The gathered nobility sigh and clap and cheer as the embers wink out against the blackness, leaving the stars behind. King Maric rises and bids you to do the same. You hope for something, an encouraging hand squeeze, at the least, from Anora. She sits in her chair like an ice sculpture that refuses to melt.

"People of Ferelden!" Your father's voice echoes over the gathered crowd below. "Today marks the eighteenth birthday of my son and your prince, Cailan!" The cheers deafen you and you are glad it is dark and no one can see you blushing. King Maric waits for the cheers to fade into the night. His smile stretches from ear to ear and he motions you to his side. "On this day my son comes of age. Let it be known that in the twenty-third year of the Dragon Age, I King Maric Theirin of the blood of Calenhad the Great, establish my estate upon Prince Cailan Theirin."

More wild cheers. Your father glances over at you; the two of you are the same height now, and you remember being a small child, looking up at a man who was larger than life. As he declares you an adult, you see just a man. He smirks, because he hates formalities nearly as much as you do, and you return the grin. It's even more ironic because the gathered nobility thinks you are smiling for them.

"I hereby name Cailan my heir with all the rights, responsibilities, and privileges therein," King Maric finishes, and his final words result in an eruption of cheers. This should be the most exciting moment of your life to this point. You've grown up the Crown Prince of Ferelden, but you have now been officially named the heir to the throne—pending the Landsmeet's approval, of course. And only if, Maker forbid, the unthinkable happens and your father passes. You try not to think about that happening, especially on what is supposed to be a happy day.

But what bothers you more than that is knowing that your father has recognized you before all of Ferelden's gathered nobility; tomorrow there will be a ceremony in the Landsmeet chamber to finalize the documentation. It bothers you because your father treats you like his only son, and presents you to Ferelden as his only son, when there is a thirteen year old templar initiate watching the fireworks from the Chantry's barracks and knowing that he will never be recognized. Your father's secret has become yours as well.

Everyone moves inside the palace. The chamber orchestra strikes up again, and you take Anora's hand for a dance while the rest of the guests circle you on the dance floor. Anora struggles to lead the dance, but you've practiced this, and you'll be damned if you let her take control for everyone to see. "What are you doing?" she hisses through her smile, and only you catch the way her eyes narrow just a bit.

"Dancing," you say with the Theirin smirk that you know infuriates her so. Sometimes annoying Anora is more fun than pleasing her.

You mingle with your guests. Anora excuses herself from your arm and goes to mingle on her own, and you are secretly grateful. Measuring up to her leaves you tense. You try to relax. You smile and greet people and thank them for coming and humbly accept their congratulations and well wishes. You wish you could call more of them 'friend'. You wish you could share a laugh and a drink with them at the pub.

Vaughn Kendalls suggests you join him at The Pearl later, but you politely decline with a glance in Anora's direction. "So?" he asks. "You're going to let the ice princess stop you from living your life?"

Your smile is polite and your voice is firm, though your words are diplomatic. "I don't find it appropriate to discuss fun of that nature when my betrothed is within earshot," you say, and excuse yourself.

"I don't think I've been to anything this grand since Arlessa Isolde's celebration for her son," Fergus Cousland tells you. He grins. "You're doing a fine job of looking like you're enjoying yourself."

You shrug and return the grin. Fergus is decent and honest, and as the eldest child in Ferelden's second most powerful family, he understands your position. "It's a nice party," you say. "All the attention is a bit overwhelming, though."

"And yet I take it you won't be slipping away to somewhere more quiet with Vaughn and his crowd later?" Fergus says with a knowing grimace.

You shake your head. "Not with Teyrn Loghain and Anora in town," you say. Talk turns to Highever, and Fergus's own betrothal. His hazel eyes sparkle as he describes Oriana, his Antivan beauty, and you envy him. It's not that Anora is not beautiful; she is. But she is beautiful in the way the winter is beautiful, in the way ice sparkles and shines in the sunlight, and you've been betrothed to her so long, you have no basis for comparison. Anora is a fact of your life, same as this palace, this gala, this secret you carry within.

The guests trickle out as the hours linger on, until you are alone with your father. The silence is louder than the party ever was, and more awkward than any amount of small talk you had to make throughout the evening.

"Cailan," he says, and your stomach twists. You fear he will confront you; that he will have found fault with your behavior this evening, or with the reticence you've shown over the past months as you sneak around to discover his secret, only to keep more of your own. But he is smiling. "I know how wearing these formal affairs are. So I didn't want to present you with your gift in front of everyone."

Two years ago it was Strider, your Antivan warhorse. Last year it was the dwarven forged two-handed greatsword you've taken to wielding, much to the surprise of Durin, the weapons master, and Loghain, who used to train you in private when he visited. Somehow slicing swathes with your sword feels better than hiding behind a shield half the time. This year, you figured being named the heir to everything the blood of Calenhad entitles you to would be gift enough.

But you follow your father down the quiet corridors and out into the darkened grounds. Your curiosity grows because he is leading you to the armory.

He stops and surveys you, and his smile is slightly sad. You are growing up; you are no longer his little boy, and he knows it. "Being king is difficult," Maric begins. "You will have to make hard decisions."

"You've told me the importance of making good choices before, father," you tell him with your charming smile. You hope your light tone will stop this conversation before it truly starts. It terrifies you when your father gets like this.

Maric leans against the wall. In the darkness of this late hour, the two of you are just a father and a son having a discussion in the torch light rather than the king and crown prince of the country. "I know I have, Cailan. But I've never told you that some decisions you'll have to make will chip away at your soul. You'll have to decide who lives and who dies; and what to sacrifice for the greater good. Who to deny and who to acquiesce to in order to maintain peace. It's more than just making good choices, it's understanding the greater good of your choices. And sometimes those choices will take part of you with them." He looks far away, as if seeing another time and place.

You feel cold. Hollow. "What decisions have taken your soul?" you ask. In the back of your mind you think of the young templar initiate, a bastard child made the ward of the Chantry.

Maric shakes his head. "Those choices have been made long ago, and it does not do to dwell on them," he says. "But I've darkened the celebratory mood enough," he says in that tone you know means he is through discussing this topic. He opens the armory door and lights a torch off one of the ones in the outside bracket. "You know the history of our country," he says and you nod. You know it better than most. "You know chaos is a way of life. And you know that things may come to pass in the near future, for which you must be ready, whether I am here or not. To that end…"

He lights torches and the orange flames illuminate a set of gleaming armor. You have to blink a few times. It's not the dull clunky plate you've grown used to wearing in the sparring ring. It's not heavy mail you've worn when you've gone out hunting with your Uncle Teagan. It's a set of golden plate over a mail hauberk. The heavy pauldrons make the suit look imposing, and you imagine the gilt helm with the snowy white plume glaring at you. Black lacquer accents the breastplate, and carefully worked detailing gives the armor a decorative appearance. Though when you touch the plates with a reverent hand, you can feel the enchantments buzzing and the solidity of the metal beneath your palm.

"It's dwarven forged, and the Circle of Magi enchanted it," your father says, and the pained, thoughtful expression is gone as his eyes twinkle in the torch light. "I had this commissioned last year; it's been hard to keep it a secret." He watches you for your reaction.

You smile. "It's… shiny," you say, but let your grin give you away. "Really, it's amazing. Thank you so much."

You want to tell him everything you know, everything that has separated you two since Redcliffe four years ago. You want to beg him to forgive you. You want to be worthy of this gift and of his pride.

You remain silent, and wonder if this is one of those decisions that will steal your soul.


	12. Transfigurations

**Note: So I'm not _entirely_ sure if this could play out this way, but I like the character of Otto and it never says specifically _when_ he was injured and subsequently blinded. And I'm trying to use canon characters as side characters/cameos instead of making them up whenever I can, so I thought hey, why not.**

_Chapter 12: Transfigurations_

Rustle of curtain, creak of wooden bench.

"Have you come to know the peace of the Maker's benediction, my child?" Brother Otto asks.

Pause. "I have, brother."

"Do you come with a contrite heart, ready to do penance and accept atonement for your sins, my son?"

Pause. "I do, brother."

Otto sits back and stares into the darkness of his confessional cloister. It is warm and snug; womblike, though the comfort is spiritual. He closes his eyes and waits to take confession from the young man on the other side of the curtain. Though confession is anonymous, Otto has grown used to certain voices over the years, and this one is new. He quietly rejoices in the ways of the Maker, leading someone away from sin and despair toward the light. "Confess your sins, child."

Deep breath. "I have secrets, brother," he begins. "They fill me to bursting, and yet I don't feel I can gain release."

Otto nods in the darkness, sensing the uncertainty in this young man. He has always been good at feeling undercurrents of evil and impurity, one quality the Chantry says will make him an excellent field templar. But that, combined with his gentle and compassionate nature, also makes him well-suited to taking confession. Otto doesn't mind either way; it is always as the Maker wills, and he does the Maker's work in either capacity. "What is the nature of these secrets, my son?"

Silence. "I prefer not to go into detail."

"If you keep the details quiet, then you will continue to bear your burden and gain none of the benefit of the Maker's blessing," Otto says and hopes he can hear the sympathetic smile in his voice.

Sigh. "I have a half brother," he says at last.

"Surely family is no reason to burden yourself so heavily."

"I only know I have a half brother because I've been dishonest," the young man says. "I've lied and bribed my way around most of Denerim to learn more about him. I even lied my way into the Chantry to see him a couple months back."

Otto sits up straighter. "And why do you feel you must resort to these courses of action, when you know they are out of the Maker's sight?"

Scuff of feet on the stone floor. "Because our father has not told either one of us." A laugh that holds a pitch of desperation. "I'm keeping secret the fact that I've uncovered my father's secret."

"Why have you not spoken with your father about this?" Otto asks. His heart breaks with pity for this burdened young man. He longs to reach out and tell him that the Maker understands what it is to have a heavy heart; but he knows the penitent on the other side of the curtain must come to that realization on his own, and confession will cleanse him and enable him to accept that truth.

"The Chant says something about Maker judging liars," the young man says. "I'm not sure what's worse, keeping a secret from my father, or finding out I was mistaken and I've done that false witness thing."

For all his paraphrasing of the Chant, the young man seems to have thought this through. Otto knows his soul stands on the edge of a sword. "By keeping secrets from your father, do you not also bear false witness against yourself?"

Creaking noise from the other side of the curtain, as he shifts. "I'm not sure I get it."

"You sneak about and keep secrets. Then you put on a façade and omit details about what you've discovered. Not to mention you learn it through deceitful methods. You bear false witness against yourself when you do this," Otto explains. The silence speaks volumes. "I take it you know this in your heart."

"How do you know?"

Otto can hear the rueful smile in the young man's words. "Because you wouldn't have come seeking forgiveness if you didn't know what you were doing was wrong. Tell me, my child, do you find there are any other ill effects of your behavior?"

"My future father-in-law hates me," he says. "But I think that had to do with a serving girl incident or two. Don't worry, I went to confession over that back at the… in a chapel near home," he says carefully. Otto shakes his head sadly; the boy is in the house of the Maker and he still feels the need for secrecy and lies of omission. He prays for wisdom. "I tried to tell my future wife about it all; you know, the whole truth will set you free thing? She actually got angry with me over it. And my father and I… well, that's the worst part." He sighs. "I guess I feel like I don't have anyone."

"You have the Maker," Otto says. "But He looks with sadness upon such rifts between a father and his son," Otto says, his way of encouraging the boy to continue.

"He started it!" the young man bursts out. "My mother died when I was really little. I needed my father and he disappeared on some damned fool adventure. I'm lucky he came back at all," he says and there is such rage in that voice. He lets out a shuddering breath. "I'm pretty certain my half-brother was conceived when my father went away. I was five, and my father was off making bastards in the Deep Roads."

"Does your father know you harbor such anger toward him?" Otto asks in a gentle voice.

A snort meant to cover a sniffle. "If he does, he doesn't let on. I… I wish he would. It would be easier if he called me out on it."

"Why do you think that?"

"Because he's my _father_. It's his job," he snaps. "Sorry, brother. I know it's not your fault." Heart-heavy, world-weary sigh. "The important thing here is, I have a half-brother that I'm pretty damned positive about, and my… no, _our_ father won't admit to."

"Have you asked him to admit it?"

"No! I can't do that."

"Why not?"

"Because my father is… well, because of who my father is."

Otto bows his head. "All men are the work of our Maker's hands, from the lowest slaves to the highest kings," he quotes. "Even a king is a man. And all men make mistakes. Sometimes they don't realize they have made them at all," he says.

"So how do I make him realize his mistake?" The young man's voice is fragile, as if confession has pushed him to his breaking point.

Otto chuckles softly. "Only he can realize his own mistake," he says. "What is important is for you to realize and repent your mistakes. It seems you know what you need to do. But your secrecy has led you to a life of sorrow, a world of pain," he quoted. "The Maker can lift you from that if you are willing. Are you willing, my child?"

Silence. Otto waits in the cocoon of blackness around him for uncountable, uncomfortable minutes. "Forgive me, my child, but I fear for your wellbeing," he says as he reaches out to pull back the curtain. But for the small flickering votives lit by the faithful earlier in the day, the Chantry is dark. And as he suspected, the wooden bench is empty.


	13. Something to Prove

_Chapter 13: Something to Prove_

As Maric rides along he thinks that it will be nice to visit with a friend who is not Loghain. The years have made him harder and colder until he is a glacier of a man, inaccessible to his friends and even his own daughter. Sometimes Maric wonders how Anora handles being cut off like that, and how she can manage to maintain such a veneer of grace and patience when she visits with his son.

But Maric has concerns about his own child. Cailan has grown quiet of late. Sometimes he disappears, and only offers offhand shrugs and vague responses when Maric asks where he's been. Maric has even had his seneschal go to the Pearl, much to the man's discomfort, and ask after Cailan, but Mistress Sanga insists the prince has not been in attendance. She even showed her well-kept books to prove it. Honestly, Maric wouldn't have been surprised if Cailan was going there; he may have even been a bit relieved, because then at least he'd know what Cailan has been up do.

And it's not so much Cailan's business that bothers him. Whatever his son is doing, he's been so secretive about it that very few people seem to recall seeing him. He's obviously being discreet. It's the effect it's had on Cailan's behavior. Maric recalls the bright, talkative fourteen-year-old, so different from the pensive eighteen-year-old riding beside him up Gherlen's Pass in the Frostback Mountains. Maric watches his son from the corner of his eye. At Cailan's age, Maric was leading a rebellion for the freedom of Ferelden. Cailan has not had that sort of soul-sucking responsibility, and should not be so burdened. Maric sighs quietly, barely audible over the crunch of hooves on crusted snow. Maybe it has to do with Anora.

Maric certainly understood _those_ sorts of problems at Cailan's age.

As they crest the pass and emerge in the open-air market outside the gates of Orzammar, he sees Duncan waiting for them. A grin spreads across his face and in his hurry to dismount and greet his friend, his foot catches in the stirrup and he finds himself face-down in the snow.

Cailan reigns in his horse; Strider prances nervously while Duncan and several dwarves run to the fallen king. But Maric is laughing. He brushes off his breeches and readjusts his chainmail shirt as he clambers to his feet. "No worries, good ser," he tells the breathless dwarves, glancing up to catch Duncan suppressing a grin. "I fall off horses; it's this thing I do." He turns his attention to Ferelden's Warden Commander. "Duncan, it's been too long." The two men clasp hands, and it becomes an embrace.

Duncan appraises Cailan and Maric gives him a questioning look, forgetting that the last time he saw the boy Cailan was probably only six or so, and that was probably only in passing. "If he weren't the crown prince, I'd be tempted to recruit him," Duncan says, giving his old friend a mischievous grin.

Maric can only shake his head at the thought of his son as a Grey Warden. "Cailan, this is Duncan, Commander of the Grey Wardens here in Ferelden," Maric tells his son.

Cailan's blue eyes widen. "Really?" he asks with a glimpse of his childlike curiosity and excitability rekindled. "Have you fought darkspawn?"

Duncan chuckles, a deep rumbling sound that is warm and reminds Maric of the camaraderie he shared when they were so much younger. "How about I tell you later this evening after we've settled down in King Endrin's palace," he says with a smile. "I'll tell you anything you want about the Grey Wardens, Prince Cailan."

"Anything?"

Maric knows that tone of voice and he pins Cailan with a glare that warns him to behave. Cailan just looks back, face blank, blue eyes wide and clear as the winter sky above them. Maric knows that look. And it worries him as they make their way to the Gates of Orzammar.

He's traveled here before but it doesn't make it any easier to cross the threshold and know that he's surrounded by tons of rock. He remembers visiting King Endrin shortly after his coronation. Thinks about good memories. But there are far fewer of those than there are bad. He looks around the Hall of Heroes and sees reminders of spiders; cobwebs; corruption. Katriel and Fiona.

He turns his attention to Cailan's first reaction to Orzammar. Maric is pleased that his son's first experience with the underground lairs of the dwarves is much more pleasant than his own. Being underground disagrees with him, but he pastes on a smile and leads his son into Orzammar proper where they will view the Grand Proving of the dwarves.

"Is this his first Grand Proving?" Duncan asks, smiling at Cailan's wonderment. Maric nods, focusing instead on his son rather than the tons of rock above and around him.

* * *

><p>Cailan likes King Endrin. The dwarf is regal, proper, and shrewd, but also kind. It appears the only people at court who have no respect for him are his own sons. Cailan feels the tension between the three of them, throbbing like an abscess about to burst. But King Endrin himself is wise and fair, and Cailan sort of wishes his father brought him to Orzammar before now. "When you're king, Cailan, you'll be expected to make a state visit," his father tells him when they've settled into the sitting room that joins their separate bed chambers. "It's good that you'll already know King Endrin." Maric rubs the back of his neck and grins. "I sort of stumbled through his kingdom before meeting him a long time ago. It's funny now, at least."<p>

Cailan's breath catches in his throat. "In the Deep Roads?" he asks.

Maric watches him. "Yes. Long before you were born. Loghain told you the story about how he, your mother, and I had to use the Roads to get to Gwaren."

Cailan fixes his father's slightly narrowed stare with one of his own. Father and son both know Maric isn't telling the whole truth, but neither will concede. "Right," Cailan drawls at last. "I suppose I do recall that." His face breaks out into a smile. "May I go to the market with Duncan?" he asks, voice bright as sunlight even this far below ground. Maric blinks, taken aback by Cailan's sudden change in mood. But Cailan has learned in the last few years that if he plays clueless and perky, people underestimate him. And when they underestimate him, he can usually get away with anything and still come out smiling in the end.

Merchants hawk their wares in the main market. Cailan tries to take it all in, but there's more to see than he can possibly process. At first he is embarrassed about towering over the dwarves, but for the most part they ignore him. It's nice, feeling normal, even if only for a little while. He sticks close to Duncan as the Warden Commander explains dwarven society to him. "What's down that way?" he asks as they walk through the main market square outside the Diamond Quarter gates.

"Dust Town," Duncan says, his brows knitting together in a hint of a frown. "It's where the casteless dwarves live." He explains the caste system in a low voice so as not to offend passing dwarves.

"It doesn't seem right," Cailan says at last, glancing around the bustling market, and remembering back to the somber splendor of the Diamond Quarter, home to King Endrin and other dwarven nobility. Cailan sighs. "Don't get me wrong, I've studied all of this with Brother Severus, but… to actually see it is harder." He's always preferred applied knowledge over theoretical; the problem with applied knowledge is seeing the reality of it, and being unable to do anything about it.

They head back the way they came, but Cailan passes the Diamond Quarter gates and pauses before a gaping maw of stone and darkness. Duncan is beside him, silent as a ghost, and Cailan jumps when he speaks. "You won't be going down there, not if your father, myself, or anyone else can help it," Duncan murmurs, his voice, his face, everything about him absolutely haunted.

The Deep Roads, Cailan realizes. He gazes into the shadows and knows that's where everything that defines him now truly began.

* * *

><p>Later that night… is it night? The three humans sit before a fire. Cailan leans back on the floor, pale hair loose about his shoulders and a look something between caution and mischief in his blue eyes. "What was your first time in the Deep Roads, Duncan?" Cailan asks suddenly.<p>

Silence. Duncan glances at Maric who glances between the Warden Commander and his son. Duncan nods once, barely perceptible and Maric tries to feel relieved. The Grey Wardens are masters of secrecy, after all. He learned that as well as any Warden would.

"It was a long time back when I was new to the Wardens, and not much older than you are now," Duncan says.

"Were there other Wardens with you?"

"Yes. They were all good people," Duncan says, doing a poor job of hiding the emotion in his voice.

Cailan latches on. "Can you tell me about them?"

Maric rises. "I think Duncan's had a long day," he says. "And we have as well. I know you're excited to be here, but perhaps you should think about turning in so you're in top form for tomorrow's Proving."

Cailan raises one eyebrow and Maric is surprised by the defiance he sees in his son's face. "I'm not tired, and I'll be fine tomorrow."

"I don't mind talking with the boy," Duncan says with a smile. "He rather reminds me of you when we first met."

"Cailan, I insist," Maric says, struggling to keep his voice even. He tries to give Duncan a warning glare that Cailan won't catch. Tries to be the fatherly authority figure to his son, who has become a young adult overnight.

Cailan levels a stare at his father, with only the faintest flush in his cheeks to suggest his embarrassment, or anger, or… something else Maric can't put a name to. "Very well," he says, and heads for his bedchamber. As he passes, Maric senses the tension in his son and wonders why Cailan is so agitated. Maybe it's being underground. Maker and Andraste both know how well Maric himself is doing with that. Even as he thinks that, he knows he's wrong, that there's more, and he doesn't know how to approach it.

It's thirteen years ago, all over again.

* * *

><p>Cailan watches the armed dwarves beat one another senseless in the arena below and thinks maybe he will institute Provings when he is king. He's beginning to think it will take nothing <em>short of<em> a Proving to get King Maric to admit what Cailan has long suspected about Alistair. He can understand his father being tight-lipped in front of other people; he is the king after all. But his own son? When it entails information about another one of his own sons? Cailan's brother?

He glances down the front row where House Aeducan sits with its honored guests. He knows the three brothers don't trust one another further than they can throw each other. But they are still brothers. Cailan applauds the winner with everyone else, but his heart's not in it, especially not when he sees his father leaning forward, elbows resting on knees, chin resting in hands, looking pensive, as if he doesn't really want to be here.

In fact, his father's been agitated ever since they came down here. Is it the enclosed space, or the tons of rock all around them? Or the memories triggered by being underground?

A break in the fighting: the unconscious loser is dragged off and the winner is resupplied. Cailan leans over to Duncan, seated between himself and his father. "How long have you and my father known one another?" he asks during the lull.

"You were probably too young to remember our first meeting, Highness," Duncan says evasively. He smiles. "Maker's breath, I was so young I barely remember it," he adds with a wink. Maric is noticeably tense.

"Was that the same age you were when you first went into the Deep Roads?" Cailan asks.

"Cailan," Maric says through clenched teeth. "This is hardly the time or place."

"When will be the time or place?" Cailan retorts, surprised by how steady his voice is.

King Endrin glances down and Maric smiles back. Cailan wishes his father were like King Endrin: staid, stoic, knowing just what to say and when to say it. He doesn't even pause to consider that like any royal, Endrin likely has his share of secrets the way Maric has had, the way Cailan does have.

"If not now, when?" Cailan persists. His anger has reached a boiling point and it doesn't matter that he's the Prince of Ferelden, or that his father is the King of Ferelden. It matters that his father has hidden this secret from him his entire life, and it takes traveling into the depths of the earth to get him to _consider_ admitting it.

"What are you trying to prove?" Maric hisses past Duncan, who glances between the Theirin men, looking like he'd rather face down a full horde of darkspawn. Maric's face is red as the lava flows that light the market outside the Proving Grounds.

"I…" Cailan cuts off. It is an excellent question. Is he trying to prove:

A.) He has a younger bastard brother

B.) His father has lied to him for most of his life

C.) He can play this game as well as his father

D.) All of the above

E.) None of the above

He thought he'd have more answers by now. But he's getting closer.


	14. Family Feud

_Chapter 14: Family Feud_

"Master Durin was surprised when you took to the greatsword, but you've made really good progress with it."

I turn to see my father leaning on the wooden rail, watching me. He has on a mail shirt and a simple steel breastplate; his longsword and shield lean against the rail at his feet. There are fine lines around his bloodshot eyes; permanent furrows formed in his forehead. Loose strands of hair fall into his tired gaze. When did my father start getting old?

"Is Duncan still here?" I ask. Easier than thinking about my father aging, which means I'm also growing up.

"He's gone to the Warden compound in the city, but will return for dinner." He smiles slightly. "Thinking you'd like to be a Grey Warden?" he teases. I rest my sword across my shoulders and hook my arms over it rather than answer. Our silence draws out across the rift between us. "What was that all about in Orzammar?" he asks when I don't respond.

Sweat runs down my face and neck and back, soaking the woolen under padding of my armor. I'd like a bath and to curl up in my room, or in the library. Somewhere away from him. "I don't know; I'm not sure this is the time." I see his jaw clench when I throw his words back at him. When I was much younger I knew that meant I was in trouble, but I'm almost nineteen now, which makes Alistair nearly fourteen: the age I was when I first met him. The age I was when I started sneaking around.

He climbs over the fence, still agile at his age, even in armor. "I can't do anything about what's bothering you if I don't know."

I slide the sword from my shoulders and start working at the practice dummy so I don't have to focus on him. Instead I focus on using my sword as an extension of my body, perfectly balanced and controlled. I'd love to tell him everything but I don't know where to start. When he lays a hand on my shoulder, I spin around so quickly he has to jump back to avoid being smashed in the ribs with my blade. I turn the sword point-down and rest my hands on the hilt, which is nearly chin-level. Years of secrecy bubble inside of me, mixing with anger until I'm afraid I might explode.

He sighs. "So I have to fight it out of you." He chuckles, but the sound is grim. He hefts his shield on his arm, the gilt Mabaris gleaming in the late afternoon sunlight. He holds his sword at the ready and nods once, an invitation to enter into battle. I return the nod and grip my hilt in both hands. In all fairness, I'm trying to fight it out of him, too.

"Who's Alistair?" I ask, swiping my sword at him. The balanced weapon sings through the air and rings out on his shield.

He steps back to brace himself and closes his eyes for just one moment; I do have a long-reaching greatsword, after all. "That's what this has all been about?" he asks, stepping in and spinning out of my sword's reach, taking advantage of the longer weapon's slower momentum to bring in a downward stroke with his longsword. I catch the blade on the cross of my hilt, but I'm still thankful for the thick mail gauntlets. "What should it have been about?" I snap, lunging forward, effectively throwing him off my weapon.

"Anora. Your mother. Why I haven't remarried. You want to run away and join the circus. Anything that would make _sense_." He shrugs, his sword and shield flying out to the side and leaving him momentarily exposed until I come at him with my weapon and he rights his guard.

"I'd join the Grey Wardens before the circus," I tell him with a smile. "In case you ever wondered. Is that what you were doing? Joining the Wardens?"

"When?" he asks through gritted teeth when my greatsword catches his sword and I lean in, sliding my longer blade down his until our hilts are locked and we are nearly touching noses.

"When you went to the Deep Roads."

"That was almost fourteen years ago, Cailan," he says and shoves me backward and comes at me with a slashing motion. "I was in a bad place."

"So you left your five-year-old kid and went wandering the Deep Roads with a bunch of Grey Wardens? My mother was dead. You could have died. And what about me?" Heat behind my eyes. Sweat dripping down my forehead. Dangerous combination. I blink rapidly and am glad to see he's sweating just as hard, even though I have well over an hour of heavy weapons practice on him. There was a time when he could trounce me even after sparring with Loghain for a couple hours. And Loghain doesn't take it easy on anyone, _especially _his best friend.

"Loghain would have taken care of it." He smashes into me with his shield and brings his sword around at my unguarded side. "I had to go. And what I found out there is important to the future of this nation."

"I'm your _son_ and you left me. And then you had another son!" Hoarse voice. Blame thirst, not angry sobs welling up inside. He drops his shield a little and his sword shakes in his gauntleted hand. I come in at him and get a pommel strike against his breastplate. He staggers back, eyes widening. Then he sighs and regains his footing.

"I didn't mean for it to be like that, Cailan." He hefts his shield back into place and adjusts his grip on his sword. "Remember when I told you that some decisions take part of you?" He watches my blade with wary eyes. "That was one of them." He swings around his sword, catching me on the hip with the clash of metal on metal.

"Why didn't you tell me I had a brother?" I yell, leveling my sword at him. My cheeks flame from exertion and anger.

"Why didn't you just ask?" he shouts back. His face is so red that his hair looks almost white against it.

He shoves his shield into me and I stagger back, the tip of my greatsword dragging in the dirt. "You think it's that easy to ask my _father_ about _that_?" I ask, hefting the sword in my hands and spinning around in a wide arc that my father dodges. "Welcome home, dad, how's my bastard baby brother?"

"It wasn't like that." His knuckles are bloodless where he grips the sword hilt. "If there were things I kept from you it was for your own good."

"You're his father too!" My voice echoes out over the otherwise empty practice ring. Father's shield drops; his sword point dips. I come at him swinging in one direction, but at the last moment feint and swing the other way. He doesn't expect me to wield the weapon so dexterously, and I catch him off guard. The blade smacks against his ribs and he falls to one knee. I grip the hilt in both hands and level the point at my father's neck. "Is Alistair my brother?"

He stares at the ground for a moment, breathing hard. He looks up and grabs my sword in his gauntleted hands and shoves, hard. The hilt catches me in the stomach. I stumble, my ankle twisting in a rut in the practice yard. I fall backward. Hear a crack. Feel the throbbing in my foot. And the pain of my pride when my father points his sword at my throat. "What gave it away, Cailan?" he asks, but his voice is calm, almost sad. His cheeks are blotchy and… are those tears in his eyes? I reach for his sword, but he gently kicks my arm out of the way and rests his foot on my wrist. He laughs suddenly. "Andraste's arse. I didn't want to tell you like this."

"Then how _were_ you going to tell me? Were you ever going to tell me?" I ask, gritting my teeth against the pain and fumbling for my sword. It's perfectly balanced and not very heavy… when you're standing upright and holding it in both hands.

He sighs. "I wanted to a long time ago. But I couldn't decide how. The longer you went without knowing the less I wanted to tell you. When did you figure it out?"

I stare up at the sky, glowing rosy-orange in the late afternoon sun. "You know how everyone says I look like you?" I ask. My father nods, lips quirked in a smile. 'That infuriating Theirin _smirk_', Anora calls it, usually with a huff and a blush in her cheeks. "Well, so does he. I saw him when we went to Redcliffe almost five years ago. He looked so much like us that I got curious."

Father nods, defeated, though I'm the one on my back with a sword at my throat. He reaches out a hand to help me to my feet, but it's hard with my rolled ankle. Harder with my crushed pride. Finally he kneels and despite my protest he flings one of my arms over his shoulder and helps me to his feet. He winces and again I'm reminded that King Maric is aging.

He leaves our weapons and helps me into the armory. Master Durin takes one look at us and sends one of the squires out to get our discarded weapons. I peel off my mail; he unbuckles the breastplate and shrugs out of the mail undershirt. Our padded undershirts are both soaked. He looks under his shirt. "That'll leave a mark," he mutters. "Seriously now, Cailan, what did give it away?"

I collapse on a hay bale. I strip off the sweat-soaked padded shirt and examine my own torso. "Yep, same here." I sigh and lean back, then work at my greaves. I try to kick my father's hand away from my twisted ankle, but he shakes his head. More pride swallowed. Tasty.

"Duncan," I tell him. "Duncan gave it away." He raises an eyebrow. I reach for a towel and wipe sweat away, push damp strands of hair off my face. "I read letters," I said.

"Letters."

"In your chest."

"You got into that?" My father sits back on his heels and shakes his head. "And here I thought I only had to worry about you chasing the servant girls and sneaking out to the Pearl with Vaughn and his friends." He looks at my swelling foot. "It may be fractured; I'll have Durin send for one of the healers." He laughs ruefully. "You are your mother's son in so many ways," he murmurs. "When she wanted something there was no stopping her."

All I really know of my mother, aside from the rare fragments of images in my memory, is that I'm as like her nearly as much as I'm like my father. "What about Alistair?" I ask in a low voice, even though I was shouting it practically all over Denerim earlier. "Is he like his mother?"

"I'm not sure." Father rises and joins me on the hay bale. He rests his elbows on his knees, pressing his fingertips together. "I know more about him than most people would like, but less about him than _I_ would like." He glances over to me. "I'd imagine you know more about him than I do."

No sense hiding it now. "I've seen him a couple times."

"And?"

"He's sarcastic. He irritates the brothers in the Chantry something fierce, from what I've seen and heard."

"Really?" Father smiles, his blue eyes crinkled at the corners and glistening with tears.

"He was a stable boy, so he's good with horses," I say. "Something else he didn't get from you." We both laugh.

He reaches over and claps my shoulder and squeezes. "I suppose now there's one thing you really need to understand more than anything."

The tone of his voice makes me cold.

"Your mother had been gone for a couple years and I was lost without her. Alistair's mother…I did care about her very much. And the whole time I was there in the Deep Roads I never stopped thinking of you and how I'd left you. I was selfish, and it was a mistake to go, even if I did learn some valuable things."

Here is what I've wanted for the last five years: An explanation; an apology; an admission of guilt. An admission of my brother's existence. And yet the look of sadness in his eyes cuts into me worse than any blade.

"I shouldn't have gone sneaking around," I mutter, not meeting his gaze. "I should have just asked."

"There are a lot of things we both should have done and didn't," he says. "Some things are out of our control now." He's talking about Alistair and the Chantry.

"Why couldn't you just keep him?" I ask. He fixes his gaze on me. "Hey, growing up an only child got a little lonely, and if you couldn't tell, I'm not exactly Vaughn's biggest fan."

He chuckles. "Urien's got his hands full with that one. I don't envy him at all. But Alistair… I wanted to. But I was reminded that we'd only been independent for a short time, and claiming an illegitimate son would threaten Rowan's memory, especially in the eyes of Orlais; she was as much a war hero as Loghain," he says. As if I could forget. "She would have seemed no better than a concubine, never mind the fact she'd been gone for two… almost three years by the time I learned of Alistair."

"So it was all politics." The word is bitter, and saying it is like sucking a lemon.

"Like I said. A king sometimes loses his soul for the sake of his kingdom. It was a decision I made."

The healer arrives and affirms my father's diagnosis of a fractured ankle, and sends us into silence. "I can heal it well enough for you to make it to the castle, but I suggest rest for the evening," he says, fingertips glowing blue over my foot. "And possibly for a couple of days to ensure the healing spells hold. I will come to you the day after tomorrow."

That night Father dismisses Loghain's constant, shadowy presence and we dine alone, father and son. We try to play chess in his study afterward, then wind up playing a few hands of Wicked Grace instead. By the time we part for the evening, the chasm between us is far smaller than is has been, and it feels good to have said what we needed to say.

One thing remains unsaid, yet understood.

We both made decisions. Neither of us ever said we were proud of them.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: The truth is revealed! But "Sneaking" is far from over. What started as Cailan looking for the truth about Alistair is now a look at Cailan as a character from that first meeting in Redcliffe up through Ostagar. So yes, there's more young Cailan goodness to be had. Plus a special 'missing chapter' that will be coming out eventually... as always, thank you so very much to everyone who's reading and reviewing and commenting; the encouragement means so much to me, as does the fact that you take your time to read and review. You are all awesome :)<strong>


	15. Reflection

_Chapter 15: Reflection_

You look at Cailan and see his mother: his smile, his laugh, the intelligence in his eyes, his love of books. And you miss Rowan even more, especially since many others look at him and only see you. You tell him about her, hoping he can remember something, anything, about his mother. You hope he will turn out more like her than like you.

Then there is Alistair. He looked so much like Cailan when he was a baby; there was never any doubt he was your son. And then when you saw him, he reminded you of yourself at his age: nine years old, always underfoot, with a shock of blond hair and an apologetic gaze. He and Cailan could have gotten along if they'd grown up as brothers rather than separated by the rift of politics. But you don't think about that often. It does not do to dwell on regret; you learned that lesson with Cailan so many years ago.

In Alistair's brown eyes you see his mother. You wonder if Alistair is anything like her in temperament as well: if he has her dry wit, and cynicism hiding an inner softness beneath that harsh exterior. He'd be fourteen by now, hardened by Chantry upbringing. Not much different from the way his mother was hardened by the circumstances of her life: so difficult that submitting to the darkspawn taint was preferable. It was that part of her that made you gather her to you and comfort her; and you know if you see it in your son, you will want to do the same. Duncan knows this, and has cautioned you against seeing him. But he has also told you that Alistair is a decent templar initiate; Cailan has told you Alistair is sarcastic, humorous, and has 'the smirk'. While you treasure the information, it also saddens you that they know more about your son than you ever will.

You regret the mistakes you've made raising Cailan, but at least there's still time for Cailan to forgive you. The frightening, sad reality is that Alistair may never forgive you; may never even know you, especially the way the Chantry hoards her own. You admire Cailan for doing what you could not, and have a measure of relief that he will turn out fine, even if he is still so young in so many ways.

Cailan was born into freedom and has grown up knowing nothing but privilege and security. He can hardly be blamed for some of his ignorance. Maybe you tried too hard to protect him from knowing too much about the difficulties of life, because it was all you knew at his age. You wanted better for him than you had. Cailan hasn't had to fight to survive the way you did.

You'll never be able to do that for Alistair. But perhaps Alistair is more like you than he will ever know. And that gives you a small measure of comfort.


	16. A Father's Faith

_Chapter 16: A Father's Faith_

It used to be that when King Maric announced a state visit to somewhere, or from an ambassador, Brother Severus would heap knowledge of the location upon Cailan. And Cailan would sit in Severus's study with words and maps swimming before his eyes and information pouring out of his ears while the old Chantry Brother tried desperately to educate the prince.

But when King Maric announces his state visit to Kirkwall, Cailan, just a month from age twenty, steals away to the library, his favorite place in the castle. There he spends hours in the silence reading Brother Genitivi's newest work, _History of Kirkwall_. The light shines through the windows, catching motes of dust suspended in the air. It shines on Cailan's bowed head as he flips page upon page, devouring information about his father's newest destination. Brother Severus has long since retired to the Chantry, but would be pleased at the way Cailan continues to educate himself.

"Why Kirkwall?" he asks his father as they sit down to their usual quiet dinner before a crackling fire. "It's the City of Chains, and if there's one thing Ferelden values, it's freedom. You know that better than _anyone_ in this country," he says with a grin, raising his glass in a mock toast.

Maric sits back and toys with his napkin. "Maybe that's why I'm going," he says. "I also would like to formally meet with their new Viscount, Dumar. We've corresponded through letters since Threnhold was executed, but I feel that an official meeting might cement our relationship with the Free Marches more solidly. Since Kirkwall…"

"Is the most important port in the region," Cailan pipes up, as if he were a child replying to Brother Severus again.

His father smiles. "Brother Genitivi's also been pressing me on my thoughts about his book; I told him I'd take a trip to Kirkwall and see the wonders for myself." The smile morphs into a grimace. "I envy you, Cailan. Your love of the written word has always been a strength of yours." Cailan bows his head humbly in thanks. "But. I recall you once complaining that you learn better through application of knowledge."

Cailan's lips quirk in a grin. "I didn't think you listened to that."

Maric's turn to grin. "To be honest, I thought it might be an active boy's excuse to abandon lessons, but I've watched you grow over the years. And I realize that you know yourself, and well."

"While I appreciate the compliments as much as the next person, what does this have to do with your trip?" Cailan asks. "Are you taking me with you?" He sits up straighter and there is a brighter gleam in his blue eyes. He recalls Genitivi's sketches of the Gallows and the Twins, the statues of slaves that greet ships entering the mouth of Kirkwall's harbor. As horrifying as the pictures are, he wants to see them for himself.

But Maric shakes his head. "I have a more important application for you," he says, and the candlelight twinkles in _his_ blue eyes. "I've been going through my papers and looking over the state of Ferelden, and have drafted up a list of tasks."

"Tasks."

"Yes, tasks I'd like you to accomplish while I'm away."

"Loghain usually does that," Cailan says, tone neutral, though he is excited as he wonders what his father's endgame is here.

Maric looks around, as if afraid his constant, cold-eyed shadow may be listening in, though he's been seeing to things in Gwaren of late. "Loghain's not going to be king," he says at last. "You are. And while you've been schooled in your future responsibilities, it's high time you apply what you've learned. You will act as king in my stead while I'm away in Kirkwall," Maric says at last, a huge smile beaming across the table at Cailan.

Cailan's eyes widen and he nearly drops his goblet of wine, but catches himself. His eyes are wide, as is his grin, but he is speechless. What _can_ you say when your father trusts you to run _the entire country_ while he's gone?

"That's the reaction I was expecting," Maric says with a chuckle. He raises his goblet to his son, and they drink a silent toast. "Of course… Loghain will be here to assist you if you need it," he says, and Cailan feels a twinge of annoyance. Maric sees it cross his son's face. "I know. Sometimes I wish he'd leave the running of the country to me, too. But he is knowledgeable, and knows Ferelden well. Some things will be new to you, and there is nothing wrong with having a voice of experience to assist you."

Cailan sighs, but still can't wipe the grin off his face. "I guess that's fair," he says. "But if he gets in the way too much… can I lock him in the dungeon?"

"_Cailan!"_ Maric exclaims, but he's laughing. The sound of their laughter echoes into the softly darkened halls of the palace.

Clouds filter a hazy sunlight onto the docks of Denerim. The air smells of stagnant salt water and rotting fish, but the city's best have turned up to send off King Maric to Kirkwall. Cailan stands on deck, resting his hands on the smooth wooden railing of his father's ship and feeling the gentle bobbing of the tide; even this close to land the sea cannot be tamed. Back in his father's study is a stack of papers: lists of tasks, notes, suggestions of who to speak to regarding various issues, and the like. But for now, he waits with his father as nobles, merchants, and peasants alike show up.

He catches a glimpse of Fergus Cousland in the crowd, the closest thing to a friend he's had, mostly because throughout all these years Fergus has never been intimidated by Cailan, though he's never been disrespectful about it, either. Nathaniel Howe, Fergus's quiet companion, has been since sent to the Free Marches to squire, or so the official word is; Fergus hints at a rebellious streak that Arl Rendon Howe wanted beaten out of his eldest. Cailan also catches sight of a very bored-looking Vaughn, there because it's expected. Anora has remained in Gwaren, completing tax audits of the region for her father, who stands on King Maric's other side: a sullen, silent sentinel not at all happy about this turn of events.

Cailan squints at the far reaches of the gathered crowd where some Chantry sisters have gathered, as well as Knight Commander Tavish and Loghain's faithful lieutenant, Cauthrien. But no others of the templar ranks. No Alistair. While the cream of Denerim's crop cheers Maric off, Alistair is likely in the Chantry doing lessons or scrubbing pots. Cailan remembers his brother's quick wit and allows himself a small grin; probably scrubbing pots.

King Maric waves to the people; _his_ people, the people he freed from Orlesian rule. And someday Cailan will rule them. His momentary swell of pride is cut off by the sudden icy fear that grips him. While his father is gone, he will be the king in all but name. The people will look to _him_ to rule, and that thought is terrifying even though as the prince, he's been training for this his whole life. Maric hasn't even set sail yet and Cailan can't wait until he comes back.

_This isn't like when he went to the Deep Roads,_ he reminds himself, and besides, in the last year or so, Cailan and his father have talked that over. Apologies have been spoken, amends made. It's been a really good year, and sometimes he feels bad for those few years he sneaked around, digging into his father's past, trying to force out a story Maric was not ready to tell. And unlike that first time Maric left Cailan, this time Cailan knows his father will come back. It's only nerves, most of which come from knowing he'll be under Loghain's raptor gaze as he practices at being king.

Maric speaks to the assembled crowd, his voice carrying on the sea breeze and echoing through the forest of masts bobbing gently in the harbor. Cailan adds 'learn to project voice effectively' to his own mental to-do list while his father's away. Maric speaks loudly and clearly without rasping, unlike Loghain. The last thing Cailan wants is to sound like Loghain, great general or not.

His internalized list grows longer and though he keeps his trademark smile plastered on, inside he is a mess. But he won't show it. He can't have people, particularly his father and Loghain, doubting him now. So long as he keeps smiling they'll assume he has it under control.

At long last Maric turns to his son. "Remember everything I've told you over the years, Cailan," he says, resting a hand on Cailan's shoulder and meeting his son's eyes. "And know I wouldn't expect this of you if I didn't think you were ready."

Cailan's face feels frozen in that idiotic grin, and the catches Loghain watching him with narrowed eyes. He focuses on his father. "Loghain scares me," he murmurs so only Maric hears him over the milling crowd and the wind and the lapping water.

Maric tries hard not to laugh. "Well… the upside to that is if you screw things up too badly, he'll know how to fix them. Maker knows he's done that enough for me," he adds with a wink. And then, in front of all of the gathered citizens, he folds Cailan in a tight hug as if he were a child again. "I love you, son," he whispers and Cailan closes his eyes and swallows the lump in his throat. It's not only that he'll miss his father; Maric's traveled on many occasions. It's that he'll miss having his father to fall back on. He doesn't say so, but he feels like Loghain _expects _him to mess up.

Cailan and Loghain descend the gangplank. Deckhands loose the ropes holding the ship to the dock while others hoist the sails and still others heave at the windlass and haul up the anchor. The ship bobs more violently as the wind catches in the sails, and very quickly it's steering out of its slip and dodging other anchored vessels. Maric dashes to the stern and stands at the back railing atop the captain's quarters. He waves, the sunlight streaming down on him and making his blond hair glow. The wind makes his purple cloak billow and Cailan fixes his eyes on that purple spot, growing smaller and smaller as the ship heads to the horizon.

He hardly realizes the crowd has dissipated until Loghain clears his throat next to him. "Ser Cauthrien and I shall escort you back to the palace, Your Highness," he says in a voice that sounds like boots crunching on gravel and swords clanging in battle.

Cailan looks up into the ice-blue eyes of Ferelden's greatest hero; his father's best friend; his future father-in-law. He sees preemptive disappointment and a hint of amusement. He squares his shoulders and pastes his smile back on. "Thank you, Teyrn Loghain," he says in a calm voice that belies none of his insecurity. "But I believe I caught sight of Fergus Cousland, and wish to catch up with him and ask after affairs in Highever."

His defiance has surprised Loghain, but if there is one thing Cailan wishes to make absolutely clear right away it's that he is not a child; he is capable and intelligent, and while he may not be his father, he knows that, if given the chance, he could be a good king. This 'practice kingship' may be the chance he's been waiting for.

Cailan keeps smiling and nods once to a stunned Loghain and bows slightly to a very confused Cauthrien. "I shall see you both at the palace later this evening," he announces. "Perhaps then we may discuss the affairs my _father_ wishes _me_ to see to." And he turns away, weaving through the diminished crowd to find Fergus.

He doesn't look back. But he would give half his inheritance to see the look on Loghain's face right now.


	17. The Practice King

_Chapter 17: The Practice King_

King Maric had been gone for mere hours and already Cailan felt like a screw-up. But that didn't stop him from eschewing returning to the palace in favor of drinking more wine in the Highever estate's stables with Fergus, even after a night of heavy drinking at the Gnawed Noble. He found himself still quite surprised by Fergus's lovely singing voice.

"Parents not going to be too happy?" Cailan asked, leaning against an empty stall while the darkened stable tilted around him, wondering why they didn't just go inside the far more comfortable estate.

Fergus grinned and took a swig from one of the wineskins. "Nah, Fianna's far worse than I'll _ever_ be, even if she is six years younger. 'Sides, it's just me and my father here right now. Fi and my mother are back in Highever doing Maker knows what with Oriana and Oren."

"Right, right," Cailan said, slapping his forehead and sloshing out some wine on the front of his doublet. "Congratulations are in order on that."

Fergus beamed even in the dim torch light. He slid down a stall front and sat right in the aisle, leaning against the weathered wood while his and Teyrn Bryce's horses nickered quietly. "When are you going to finally get the stones to marry Anora?" he asked when Cailan sat beside him. "You've been betrothed to her since we were all kids. Andraste's teats! I got married already. And have my own child. You're twenty, Cailan."

Cailan sighed and drained his current wineskin and uncorked the full one at his side. "My father never pressed the issue," he said with a swig and a shrug. "And she's always off in Gwaren, so it's not like she's around to press the issue either," he added with a wink. "So your sister's a wild child, is she?" he asked suddenly.

"A bit… comes from being the baby in the family. She's spoiled rotten. Why?"

Cailan laughed. "A few years back I was snooping around my father's study," he said. "I found some letters of his he'd tucked away, and one was your father's response to _my_ father asking about betrothing me to Fianna." Fergus had, unfortunately, been taking a large swig of wine at that moment. He spluttered and coughed, most of the liquid ending up down the front of his doublet. "Hey, I'm the Practice King of Ferelden," Cailan said with a lopsided grin. "I'm quite the catch."

Fergus was still caught between choking on his wine, and laughing hysterically. His eyes were scrunched shut and he'd nearly doubled over. He wiped at his doublet, but to no avail. "What's wrong with Anora?"

"Nothing," Cailan said, which was the truth. "She's beautiful and smart and will be an amazing queen."

"But."

"She always thinks she's right. She's so much like her father in that regard." Cailan sighed. "She's so independent. It must come from being an only child."

Fergus snorted. "Have you _heard_ half of the rumors about Fianna? And she's got an older brother, a sister-in-law, and a nephew." He shook his head, his floppy dark locks falling into his eyes. "If you've heard half the rumors, you've heard most of the truth."

"You talk like having a sister's a chore."

"I suppose it wouldn't have to be," Fergus said, thoughtfully sipping at a fresh wineskin. "But with a sister like Fi, it's hard sometimes. I really want to do a good job for Father so he'll trust me with the Teyrnir someday; she doesn't take anything seriously. Sometimes _I _wish _I _was an only child."

Cailan only nodded, the heady buzz of the wine beginning to fade, even as he continued to drink. How could he tell Fergus he envied him? Or Nathaniel, because they had what he'd always wanted: a sibling. And the worst part was, Cailan knew he did have a brother who looked as much like a Theirin as he or King Maric did. But because of the circumstances of his birth, he couldn't do anything about it. If he and Alistair had grown up together, Cailan was sure he would be here in these same stables drinking with himself and Fergus, and then they could go back and face Loghain's wrath together.

He staggered to his feet. "I should get home," he said, wincing at the throb of a headache pulsing at his temples.

Fergus clambered to his feet as well, clutching the rail of the stall for support. He took a breath as if about to say something, then suddenly turned and heaved up what he'd been drinking. He waved away Cailan's offer of assistance. "Just think," he said, spitting to get the taste out of his mouth, "if you'd married Fianna this might be your life."

Cailan stared at Fergus, face blank. "She's fifteen."

Fergus laughed. "Age is just a number, far as Fi's concerned. Come on, we'll get an escort for you."

"I'm twenty, Fergus. And I've found my way back to the palace far drunker than this," Cailan said.

Fergus grinned. "Ah yes, but you weren't the Practice King of Ferelden then, nor did you have Teyrn Loghain waiting up for you." They started walking, their careful steps more due to drunkenness than to any uneven stones in the path from the stables to the estate. "Remember," Fergus said when Cailan was surrounded by a retinue of Highever guards. "He's still just the Teyrn. You're…"

"Practice King of Ferelden," Cailan repeated with a grim chuckle. Maybe Fergus could wave it off, but he couldn't. And already the telltale headache was pounding in his head like a dwarf digging for lyrium; sleep could only hope to dull the pain. It was the one thing he would need, and the one thing he was unlikely to get enough of, with his father's list and Loghain staring over his shoulder. Cailan tried to remember the map of Thedas, and told himself that Kirkwall really wasn't _that_ far off, and if the winds stayed fair his father would be home and ruling the country before they knew it.

* * *

><p>"I trust your excursions were worth it, Your Highness."<p>

Cailan paused as he passed the small, snug sitting room in the family quarters. By now his hangover headache was so bad he could barely keep his eyes open and only wanted to collapse in his bed. "I was with Ser Cousland," he said. "You may have your men check in at the Teyrn of Highever's estate tomorrow." He kept walking.

"I hope this won't become a habit for the duration of your father's voyage, Highness."

Cailan paused. There were so many things he wanted to say to the Teyrn, but he kept remembering his father's advice to him so many years ago about making good choices. Yes, right now he wanted Loghain to cease lecturing him like a child, when he had come of age two years ago. But, much as it pained him to admit it, he also knew he'd need the Teyrn for assistance and it might not do to alienate him so early on. He briefly wondered why his father couldn't have so closely befriended Bryce Cousland all those years ago. Then he sighed. "Good night, Teyrn Loghain," he said, rather than argue any issue. If Loghain was surprised, he said nothing, and Cailan slid the deadbolt of his bed chamber before passing out in his bed, dead to all but the steady pounding between his temples.

Over the days that followed, Cailan's headache and hangover quickly dissipated, but his frustration lingered. The first morning he walked into his father's study after a hearty breakfast that would have made Anora wrinkle her nose and avert her eyes at the sheer amount of greasy food he ate. He carried a second mug of special tea made by his old maid, Cornelia that calmed his stomach and made the pain fade from his skull. It all returned when he saw Loghain sitting behind Maric's desk, scratching a quill over papers.

Papers from the stack Maric had left for Cailan.

He cleared his throat and Loghain looked up, one corner of his mouth pulled up in a smile. He looked uncomfortable, as if the gesture pained him. "Better this morning, Your Highness?"

"Far, Teyrn Loghain," Cailan said, still standing in the doorway. He was twenty, and had grown up around Loghain, but somehow, without Maric around to run to, Loghain intimidated him. "I see you've made yourself busy?" he began.

"Don't worry yourself, Prince Cailan. Your father left instruction for me to assist you, and I shall do that to the best of my capacity. Good day." He bowed his head, the braids on either side of his face swinging and brushing over the paperwork while the quill scratched and Cailan remained ignored.

The next day was much the same, as was the next until Cailan had had just about enough of Loghain's assistance. He slammed shut the book he was reading; the words held no interest for him. The one thing that would have interested him seemed to be placed tacitly off limits by Teyrn Loghain.

And it surprised him to realize that he was jealous of Loghain, and _wanted_ to attend to the business of running his country.

So he put his book away, neatened himself up, and strode down to the study where Loghain sat, and had sat for days. The grim-faced Teyrn hardly seemed to have moved, and did not look up when Cailan cleared his throat from the doorway. Cailan strode in. **_You_**_ are the king's son, and the future monarch of Ferelden, not him,_ he reminded himself even as his stomach tied itself into knots.

He stood right in front of the desk. "Good afternoon, Teyrn Loghain," he said in a clear voice. The Teyrn gave a noncommittal grunt of greeting and Cailan watched as he reached for the stick of sealing wax and let melted red wax drip over the folded paper. And then he took the Theirin signet ring with the symbol of the line of Calenhad, and pressed it into the wax. Cailan felt a surge of anger rise up within him as he watched Loghain take liberties and completely ignore him.

Loghain placed the letter in a stack and finally looked up. He didn't even try to smile this time, and Cailan thought he looked annoyed. "Is there any way I might serve you, Highness?" he asked while his eyes flicked to the list, scrawled in Maric's handwriting on the corner of the desk. "If not…"

Cailan pulled himself up to his full height and looked down his prominent Theirin nose at Loghain. "You may vacate my father's study," he said. "That is how you may serve me."

Loghain's chilly blue eyes widened and Cailan forced himself to maintain eye contact. "Your Highness, your father charged me with assisting you while he was gone."

"Yes. Assisting me. Not doing my job for me," Cailan said. He tried to tell himself that the tremor in his voice was just due to anger. Not the dangerous spark in the Teyrn's eyes. Loghain did not answer for a long while. Cailan plucked the top letter from the pile and stepped back when Loghain reached for it. Cailan took his time loosening the seal and unfolding the letter while Loghain perched on the edge of his chair, face reddening.

"What do you think you're doing, Cailan?" he asked in low, rumbling voice that held all the menace of a closing thunderstorm.

Cailan blinked and smiled. "While I'm certain the Antivans will appreciate your insight into the trade negotiations, I'm also certain that _my father_ wanted the Antivans to have _my_ insight into it."

"You need not trouble yourself, Highness—"

"Because you'll just do it for me?" Cailan snapped, his tone catching Loghain off guard. "My father tasked _me_ with running this nation in his absence, and I intend to do that. I'm not a child anymore, Loghain. I am the Crown Prince of Ferelden. And you will treat me as such," Cailan finished. He clenched his hands at his side to keep them from shaking, but kept his face as expressionless as possible. His father was much better at it than he was, but Cailan supposed that, like anything, it just took practice.

The two stood there staring at one another like territorial Mabari hounds. Neither gave any quarter until finally Cailan nodded once. "If this is how it is to be, then I order you, as Prince of Ferelden, to stand down and vacate this room, Teyrn Loghain."

He was afraid Loghain's eyeballs would fall out of their sockets and onto the clean sheets of vellum on the desk. He thought about perhaps sending one to his father in Kirkwall if that happened, but settled on merely drafting a quick note to send to him on the next transport, telling him of this small victory over the Teyrn.

Loghain rose as if it pained him to stand after long hours in the chair, but Cailan knew the only pain Loghain felt was a bruised ego. "Should I require your assistance, I will send for you," he said with a note of finality to his voice when the Teyrn paused in the doorway.

When he was gone at last, Cailan settled into his father's chair and leaned back to survey the study from this vantage. He glanced up at the portrait of his mother on the wall; he'd always thought she looked somewhat sad, maybe a little too serious. But Maric had always fondly said that Rowan was the only one who could truly put Loghain in his place. As Cailan started opening Loghain's sealed letters and scratching out and making edits of his own, he smirked. He was his father's son, of that there was no doubt. But perhaps he _was_ a _lot_ like his mother, too.


	18. One Month

**Author's Note: So this looks like a numbered list, but it isn't; each number represents one day in the month. I say this just in case anyone points out I'm violating the ToS by posting a numbered list. As always, thanks to everyone taking the time to read and review! PS: if you want a happier ending for Maric, check out "Castaway" by deagh :)**

_Chapter 18: One Month_

1. Word from Kirkwall: Maric's ship never arrived. The notice is late because of the plague of storms hindering communication. He's stunned, caught in his own storm.

* * *

><p>2. He wanders the palace in a daze, twenty years old and lost without his father once again. Only this time he knows where he went. And he knows he'll never come back.<p>

* * *

><p>3. The breathless messenger on the foaming, sweaty horse says Anora will arrive from Gwaren as soon as possible. Cailan doesn't really care, even though he should.<p>

* * *

><p>4. "The people wait on you, Your Majesty," Loghain says.<p>

"Don't call me that," he says.

"It's who you are now, Cailan."

He sighs, rests his face in his hands. "I know."

* * *

><p>5. The Chantry is up in arms about the lack of a body. "We don't know what to do for the pyre."<p>

"You don't seem to realize this is just as hard for me." Insensitive bastards.

* * *

><p>6. No body means he could still be alive. Cailan stares up at the ceiling of his chambers, hoping. It's easier than climbing the mountain of tasks looming over him.<p>

* * *

><p>7. "Say to the people that Maric the Savior will be memorialized a week from tomorrow at the Denerim Chantry," Cailan says. It sounds like he's talking about a stranger.<p>

* * *

><p>8. He stands outside the Chantry in a cloak, hood up, obscuring his face. Alistair is the only one he can really share his loss with. Or is he? He never knew their father.<p>

* * *

><p>9. Bryce arrives with his family shortly before Anora does. The two teyrns call a Landsmeet for after the funeral. Anora arrives. Cailan hides in his father's study.<p>

* * *

><p>10. "Dear Alistair," he starts. What do you say to the brother you don't really know, about the father who only loved you? The ground is littered with crumpled vellum.<p>

* * *

><p>11. The Grand Cleric goes over the details of the eulogy; not listening. Loghain and Anora talk about the Landsmeet; not listening. Why should he? No one listens to him.<p>

* * *

><p>12. Funeral. Landsmeet. Wedding is thrown in for good measure. They're planning his life when all he wants is to grieve. No wonder Maric went to the Deep Roads that time.<p>

* * *

><p>13. He stares at the portrait of the mother he barely knew; thinks of the brother he hardly knows; while trying to grieve for the father he was just getting to know.<p>

* * *

><p>14. Cailan rides hard, pushing Strider until he's foaming. He dismounts and lets his horse drink from a stream. "I'm sorry. It's not your fault." Who <em>is<em> he talking to?

* * *

><p>15. Loghain was furious about that, but he can't show it at the funeral. Cailan is the middle of a Mac Tir sandwich. He tries not to laugh. His father would like that one.<p>

* * *

><p>16. Thanking people for condolences, sincere or hollow, left him tired. Empty. He pretends to sleep through the day. They leave him alone if they think he's sleeping.<p>

* * *

><p>17. "You should take the Landsmeet more seriously."<p>

"I get that all the time."

Loghain storms out; Cailan smiles. Maric put up with Loghain but it doesn't mean _he_ has to.

* * *

><p>18. The banns and arls argue his fate as if he's not even there. Loghain and Bryce sit on either side of him. A teyrn sandwich, this time. But Cailan's too nervous to laugh.<p>

* * *

><p>19. He can hear the shouting in his sleep. Yesterday ended with someone suggesting Bryce take the throne. Today everyone shouted about it. Cailan has a headache.<p>

* * *

><p>20. "Calenhad's blood defines Ferelden," Bryce says. "I will not take the throne while that blood yet lives among us." Loghain seems put out no one suggested him.<p>

* * *

><p>21. He's trapped, bound in silk by captors who torture him with needles and ceaseless prattling. He doesn't care what he wears, so long as it ends. Damn formal affairs.<p>

* * *

><p>22. The Grand Cleric drones. The nobles shift. The cloak is too heavy, his father's reputation heavier. When he's crowned, they swear fealty. Only some of them mean it.<p>

* * *

><p>23. He sits on the throne. Thinks of the work piling up in Maric's study. No, his study. Sigh. He thought being king would be different. He wonders how Alistair is doing.<p>

* * *

><p>24. "Your father didn't acknowledge him. Neither should you."<p>

"What if something happens before I have an heir?"

"Let me handle it."

Eamon's as bad as the rest of them.

* * *

><p>25. "Aren't you going to tell me what to do? Everyone else has."<p>

"Exactly why I'm _not_ going to do that." Teagan hands him Strider's reins.

"You are _so_ my favorite uncle."

* * *

><p>26. Loghain lectures him about the importance of faithfulness within marriage. He knows he's his father's son. He reminds Loghain that he's not <em>his<em> son. _Maker_ Loghain can _shout._

* * *

><p>27. The Landsmeet; the betrothal; his very birth: his life was planned for him by others right along. He wonders if Alistair knows just how much they have in common.<p>

* * *

><p>28. He misses his father. On the docks he stares out over the darkened harbor; smells the tang of salt, the reek of rotting fish. He ponders life as a stowaway. No body.<p>

* * *

><p>29. The night before the wedding he tries to sleep but keeps dreaming of his father drowning, covered in seaweed. Or maybe that's him; they always did look so much alike.<p>

* * *

><p>30. The bells ring out over Denerim. He accepts congratulations, but not from the two people who matter most. One is dead, and the other theoretically doesn't exist.<p> 


	19. Anticipation

_Chapter 19: Anticipation_

"Are you holding up alright?" Fergus casts a sidelong glance at Cailan.

King Cailan smiles, sunny as ever, but it does not quite meet his sky blue eyes, clouded with worry. "Of course; it's been nearly a year, Fergus."

Fergus shrugs and continues to walk the fragrant plum orchards, Cailan beside him, sulking as if they were boys again. "I didn't ask how long it's been," he points out. "I asked how you were holding up. And don't tell me fine."

Cailan's smile fades and he rubs the back of his neck. He looks around, but he and Fergus are alone amongst the plum trees. Still, he keeps his voice low. "Remember when we got drunk and proclaimed me the 'Practice King of Ferelden'?" he asks. "Well… over a year later and I still feel like I'm practicing."

"What do you mean?"

Cailan snorts and shoos an errant branch out of his face. "You'd never know Loghain hails from Gwaren with the sheer amount of time he spends in Denerim," he says, voice dripping with disdain. "And I wouldn't mind signing and sealing my own documents every now and then."

Fergus's eyebrows shoot up, nearly lost in the locks of hair that flop over his forehead. "Have you spoken to him about it?" It's Cailan's turn to raise his eyebrows and Fergus shakes his head. "Yeah, you're right. What does Anora say?"

"Just that he's trying to help. Which I could understand a year ago, but now it's just getting annoying. He orchestrates things, and I deal with the fallout as the face of Ferelden. Half the time I don't even know what I'm dealing with so I wind up looking like an idiot," Cailan says. "And no smart comments from you about how I already do," he tells his friend.

Fergus blinks and smiles angelically, but his expression gets serious again. "I'm not sure what to tell you short of having him arrested and thrown into Fort Drakon," he says.

Cailan nods, lips pressed in a tight line and it's evident he's thought about this before. "I know I'm not the kind of man my father was, or Loghain is, or even your father is," he says. "I haven't had to face the same sorts of hardships. But I could be a good king if I had a chance, and had the right person advising me." He sighs. "I'd love to sack Loghain and hire on your father," he says, and Fergus nods. "He was there at the River Dane, same as Loghain and my father, but he's got sense enough not to see foreign diplomacy as an open door to hostile takeover."

"The Couslands are always at the service of the crown, you know that, Cailan." Fergus reaches up and plucks a low-hanging plum and nods for Cailan to do the same. "And currently, you are the crown. So why not do what you think you need to do?"

Cailan turns the ripe, sweet-smelling fruit in his hand. He leans against a tree and looks back across the orchard. They are just small dots among the trees now, but he knows Anora is back there with Fergus's wife, Oriana, and their son, Oren. "You know why I can't," he says at last. Fergus starts to protest. "Every point I make, she can only say he's doing it for the good of Ferelden. If I don't want my marriage to fall apart and be the laughingstock of Thedas, I pretty much have to listen to her," he says. "We're already under scrutiny from within," he admits after chewing thoughtfully on a bite of plum.

Fergus nods, but he stares at the ground as if afraid to admit this knowledge to the king. "Has she conceived and miscarried?" he asks, voice low. "Rumor was that Arlessa Isolde miscarried several times before giving Arl Eamon his son."

"No signs of conception. And her courses are regular." Cailan drops the half-eaten fruit to the ground, appetite gone. "There have been occasional scares with a couple of the other women, but—"

"Wait. Other women?" Fergus asks, all but gawking at Cailan. "You're married!"

Cailan doesn't even blush. "Anora knows."

"She knows?" Fergus's voice startles a small flock of birds nestled in the branches overhead. "Maker's balls, Cailan!" He blinks and his mouth hangs open a bit as he tries to think of something else to say. "Anora's your _wife_. She's smart and beautiful and a damned good queen, and you're sleeping around?"

"Not around. Just here and there," Cailan says. He should have expected this reaction from his happily married friend. He wants to tell Fergus about the way Anora closes up those mornings when her courses flow, even after carefully timing their lovemaking exertions to optimize pregnancy. He wants to explain how he can't meet her gaze, because those cool, confident blue eyes are coated with tears that she refuses to shed. He wants to tell Fergus how, if talking to her about important things is difficult to begin with, talking with her about _anything_ is nigh impossible when she's like this. She shies from his touch, no matter how comforting. She turns her cheek from his kiss, turns her back on him. So he finds willing arms and lips and loses himself.

Fergus sighs. "I can't say I'm too impressed, but as your friend I'm not going to lecture you," he says, and Cailan nods, eyes hard, expression grim. Fergus attempts levity. "You have Teyrn Loghain for that!"

Cailan laughs in spite of himself and the two head back toward the women. His heart catches in his chest the way fabric snags on a nail when he sees Anora holding Oren. The child is nearly two years old now, with his father's mop of dark wavy hair and his mother's indigo-blue eyes. Anora holds him on her hip easily and Cailan can't miss the glow on her face as she smiles and lightly taps Oren on the nose. The little boy's laughter echoes through the orchard and he reaches to tap Anora right back.

Fergus approaches Oriana and gives her a kiss on the cheek, and she settles back into his embrace. Cailan hangs back. He's never seen Anora so happy. Even on their wedding day she stood straight with her head up and her jaw set, as if marching to war.

She has always done what is best for her country, including marrying him. But now, the best thing for their country, and their marriage, is a child. And she cannot produce one. And nothing he says or does can change that.

Cailan melts back into the trees; everyone else is so intent on Anora and Oren's game, he goes unnoticed. He finds his way from the orchards and out to the cliffs. He stands, alone, listening to the cries of the gulls. He inhales the scent of the salt air, feels the spray on his face. Hears the crash of the waves on the rocks. Somewhere out beyond the edge of the horizon, below the waves, his father's body lies, leaving Cailan more alone than ever.

When an irate Cauthrien, current head of his elite bodyguard unit courtesy of Teyrn Loghain, finds him hours after dark, he can't justify himself in any other way than to shrug like an idiot. Back in their rooms in Highever Castle, he tries to minister to Anora's needs, but she turns from him and feigns sleep. It stings, but he can hardly blame her anymore.

They've tried so hard to conceive a child. But of late, they'd rather try harder to avoid the pain of anticipation.


	20. Seeking Counsel

**Author's Note: I wanted to convey a passage of time and some events that occurred during those five years of Cailan's reign, but capturing all the events individually seemed to be a lot of filler chapters. So I thought that Cailan deserved a chance to say what he thought of these things in his own words to some of the people who became important to him and his reign during those years between his coronation and Ostagar. Of course... this means Ostagar is on the horizon :(**

* * *

><p><em>Chapter 20: Seeking Counsel<em>

7 Cloudreach, 27 Dragon

From His Royal Majesty King Cailan Theirin

To the Honorable Bann Teagan of Rainesfere:

I love writing that. It never gets old. I hope all is well at Rainesfere, and with you. I write because Denerim has been a bit dull of late. While I've managed to convince T.L. (not so subtly) to relinquish some control, Q.A. seems to have taken over. We've still had no sign of a child, which is most disappointing for us. I've tried to convince her that we must trust the Maker, and that it is not her sole responsibility to provide an heir. But she throws herself into ruling the kingdom, leaving me feeling a bit superfluous. Even if I am the king.

Perhaps you'd consider traveling to Denerim come the summer months? It's been a while since we've gone out hunting like we used to. Though he's aging, Strider seems to miss the thrill of the chase. And I miss the company of my favorite uncle. Perhaps you'll have some stories with which to regale me when you arrive. And if you have none as of yet, you have a couple months to acquire some. I look forward to your speedy reply.

With sincerest wishes for the Maker's blessings upon you,

His Royal Majesty King Cailan Theirin

(Alright. That does get a bit long to write.)

* * *

><p><p>

14th Cloudreach, 27 Dragon

Dear Alistair,

Yet another letter I will never send; and yet I don't know why I don't just get the stones to do it. I'm the king, after all; what are they going to say?

I've gone to the Chantry for sermons less than I used to. It's hard to go recite the blessings of the Maker when you're not sure you believe them, and even harder to canonize Andraste for her selflessness when you feel completely self-absorbed. I think of all the things I want for my life that I've been denied. And before you begin to resent me for having what you did not, _you_ are included in that list.

Of late, life has felt empty to me. Those with whom I should share things, I can't. I miss our father and his guidance very much. I keep thinking how things would be different, or better, if I'd had my younger brother in my life. If we'd grown up together, perhaps I wouldn't feel so isolated now.

While I don't pray to the Maker often, I do pray every night for your continued safety. And if the Maker won't grant me a boon for myself, perhaps he will grant one to someone on my behalf. Take care, little brother.

Remaining unsent,

Cailan

* * *

><p>1st Justinian, 27 Dragon<p>

Warden Commander Duncan:

I hope my missive finds you well, and that the state of the Grey Wardens in Ferelden is good. My purpose in writing is twofold.

Firstly: though you were present at my coronation, we had little time to speak. As a result, it has been a few years since we were last in one another's company, and upon reflection, I realized I behaved poorly. I was not a good representation of the Theirin name, and while I could plead youth and arrogance, it doesn't change my behavior. I wish to apologize for presenting myself badly.

Second: Throughout his life, my father King Maric called you his friend. He trusted your counsel and believed that the nation would face a threat only you and the Grey Wardens could quell. He spoke to me briefly in the weeks before he set sail. While he never went into full detail, I could tell he was most troubled. I'm not sure what sorts of signs to be looking for; I've had enough of a time figuring out the ins and outs of running my kingdom and trying to honor my father in that way; but I also wish to honor his concerns.

To that end, I would be most grateful if you would keep me apprised of darkspawn movements that could signal the start of something bigger. My father saw Ferelden freed from Orlais on his watch; I would not see it fall to darkspawn on mine. Your order has the support of the Fereldan crown in this matter, as well as my advance thanks.

Sincerely,

King Cailan Theirin of Ferelden

* * *

><p><p>

24th August, 27 Dragon

To the Exalted Empress Celene I of Orlais:

I have reviewed your suggestion that Queen Anora and I make a state visit, and thank you for your willingness to consider putting the past behind our nations. Our differences were settled nearly two decades ago, and to continue harping on them only drives a further wedge between us. Our first official meeting will signal the start of a new age of diplomacy between Orlais and Ferelden. My Seneschal Garion shall conduct the arrangements for our visit.

May the Maker's blessings shine upon you,

His Royal Majesty King Cailan Theirin of Ferelden

* * *

><p><p>

3rd Kingsway, 27 Dragon

From His Majesty King Cailan Theirin

To His Grace Arl Eamon Guerrin of Redcliffe:

I thank you for your offer to administrate Ferelden while I am away in Orlais. However, my travels there should not encompass more than a month. I will travel to and from with due haste, and remain in the country with my small contingent of handpicked guards only as long as is necessary. During that time Queen Anora has elected to remain in Denerim, and shall rule the country in my stead. She is more than capable, and has proven her worth in ruling several hundred times over.

On the topic of my wife, while I appreciate your concerns, I wish to remind you as your king and as your nephew that there are certain areas of my private life that are not yours to know. Neither my father nor I presumed to question you and Lady Isolde about similar matters, and I do not think it much to request the same courtesy from you.

Please give my regards to the Lady Isolde and my cousin Connor.

Sincerely,

King Cailan Theirin of Ferelden

* * *

><p><p>

15th Harvestmere, 27 Dragon

Dearest Anora,

How I wish you could be here in Orlais with me! Not only do I miss you terribly, but Val Royeaux is lovely. I understand and respect your decision to remain behind, though I would have a much better time here if I were experiencing the wonders of the Divine's City with you.

E.C. is surprisingly genial. She has made it clear that, despite what her nobility says, her desire is that there be peace and accord between Orlais and Ferelden. She has drafted up an agreement and would be most flattered if you would look it over for us. She has heard of your worth to the kingdom of Ferelden, and sees how highly I regard you as my wife and my dearest partner in greatness. She also regrets that you could not be here.

With the drafting of the accord, I have decided to cut my visit short and shall be departing the day after next. By the time this letter reaches you, I shall only be a week or so away from holding you in my arms once again.

With love from your husband,

Cailan

* * *

><p><p>

16th Haring, 27 Dragon

Fergus:

Now I know why your parents continue to do business with Orlais. The country is magnificent. If only Anora had come with me; I saw some ruling and administrative practices that would enable Ferelden to run more efficiently. But I'd never be able to convince her on my word alone.

I was very sorry to hear of Oriana's miscarriage. You're both such fantastic parents, and Oren could use a little brother or sister to terrorize. Isn't that what you always told me about the relationship between yourself and Fianna?

I'm planning a grand First Day celebration to mark my safe return from Orlais, and announce my hopes to usher in a new era of diplomacy between Ferelden and Orlais. Teyrn Loghain of course disapproves, but he doesn't get a say. I'd be most honored if you'd help, since I'm certain Anora will feel torn loyalties if I ask her.

Yours,

Cailan

* * *

><p><p>

17th Haring, 27 Dragon

King Cailan Theirin to his Grace Teyrn Bryce Cousland of Highever,

My greetings to Your Grace, with the hopes that I find you and your family well. As you've no doubt heard, I have returned from a state visit to Orlais. While there I began to see the backwardness of most Fereldans' views of the Orlesians, and have decided I'd like to see peace and diplomacy reign between us, rather than fear, doubt, and suspicion.

I write you because I know you fought alongside my father King Maric during the rebellion. And yet you and the Lady Eleanor have made several trips to Orlais, both diplomatic/business related, and for pleasure. I would happily seek your counsel regarding your visits to Orlais, and how you have managed to move forward and overcome your feelings about the occupation. While one of my regular advisors does not approve of anything to do with Orlais, and had some strong words to say about my decision to travel there, I am looking to put the past behind us and feel that there is no one in Ferelden better suited to counsel me than Your Grace.

I know you are in Denerim on business often, and would like to extend an invitation to you and any of your family who may be along on your next trip, to have dinner with me at the palace so that we may discuss this and other matters. You have my gratitude for your consideration.

Sincerely,

King Cailan Theirin

* * *

><p><p>

1st Wintermarch, 28 Dragon

Dear Father,

It's been nearly three years and I still don't wish to believe you are truly gone. I hold fast to the fact that there was no body, and very little evidence of a shipwreck or remains run aground on the reefs. When he wasn't trying to run Ferelden for me and Anora, Teyrn Loghain spent the better part of those first couple of years looking for you. He found nothing; that seems proof enough to him that you are gone, but for me it is just more hope to cling to that perhaps you've just drifted away.

I hope I am making good choices and honoring your legacy in Ferelden. Loghain seems to think I'm not, because I want to ally with Orlais. He says it's opening the door to another invasion and occupation, and that I'm young and naïve for doing so. But I don't think so. I think you wanted to move forward, and you would want me to do the same.

Alistair is well. Duncan sends me word whenever he's in Denerim, which seems to be a lot, lately. He says Alistair hasn't taken his final vows, though many of his age already have. I am relieved. I keep thinking of some way to keep him from becoming a slave to the Chantry. But the way we were both brought up is a testament to the fact that being a king has no bearing over politics and policies. Some days I just want to be normal. Some days I just want to have a conversation with my brother.

You were right that time you told me that being king chipped away at your soul. I'm understanding that more and more each day. Wherever you are, I hope you are well, and eventually happy. And may the Maker will that we meet again in this life.

Always your son,

Cailan


	21. Confrontation

**Author's Note:** my contribution to the Eamon Is A Dick fanon propagated by MsBarrows ;) Also, I took inspiration from this from Cailan's correspondence found in his chest during Return to Ostagar. In letter 2, Eamon mentions the need for an heir and that the last time they spoke of it, they parted harshly. That presented the inspiration for this chapter.

* * *

><p><em>Chapter 21: Confrontation<em>

"I've positioned scouts in the Deep Roads on and off since I became the Warden Commander," Duncan said, shifting in the overstuffed chair in Cailan's study. "So far there has been little out of the ordinary, though that doesn't mean anything when it comes to a Blight."

"Has the First Warden given you anything to go on?" Cailan asked. He stood at the window, back to the room, gazing out over the courtyard through the wavy glass. Duncan was silent. Cailan turned and favored the Warden Commander with a smile. "Come now, Duncan, you know I've done my research on these matters."

Duncan nodded once and returned the grin. "I would be remiss if I thought otherwise," he said. His smile faded. "Weisshaupt is disturbingly silent on the matter. And many wardens are inclined to believe that after four centuries the Blights are at an end."

Cailan shook his head, his blond hair flying out around his face and giving him the mien of a madman. "The witch of the wilds said there would be a Blight."

"She also said that your father wouldn't live to see it," Duncan said in an even voice. "That could mean in this age, or the next. Or the one after."

"You don't believe that," Cailan said, leaning against the wall. He fixed his blue eyes on Duncan. The older man stared back, his dark gaze unreadable. "My father believed what she said; and you believed my father."

Duncan nodded. "This is true, Your Majesty."

"So convince them!" Cailan exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air.

"What is this _really_ about, Cailan?" Duncan asked as he watched the king pace the study, reminding him of a caged wolf. "Your father's reign was based on a risky and violent campaign. You've had peace these last years, and search for more with this proposed alliance with Orlais. Do you seek to top him?"

Cailan stopped pacing. "I won't deny that I've dreamed of being sung about in tales and stories," he said with a ghost of a smile on his lips. "The songs the Orlesians sang of my father were awe-inspiring. But I know I'm not my father. And all I want is to be certain that if a threat presents itself to my country, my country is mobilized and ready to respond to it."

Duncan nodded. "That is fair. Will there be anything else?"

Cailan's gaze darted toward the locked door. He sat in the chair closest to Duncan and dropped his voice to just above a whisper. "News of Alistair?"

"There is to be a tournament to showcase the templars. No date has been set yet, but I've heard they plan for the spring. It will be here, in Denerim, and the Grand Cleric has invited me to survey the novitiates."

"To recruit?"

"Potentially." A shadow crossed his lined face. "Cailan I must warn you. It is highly possible that Alistair will not be the candidate I need. It may even be that he declines my invitation if it is offered. I see how you care for your brother, and it is admirable given your… relationship."

"Or lack thereof?" Cailan asked, voice dull, shoulders slumped.

Duncan had nothing to say to that. Instead he rose, his blue Warden Commander tunic unfurling to his knees. "I will do what I can, Your Majesty."

Cailan rose as well and saw his father's old friend to the door. He barely had a chance to bid the Commander farewell before Seneschal Garion appeared with a pinched look on his lined face. "Warden Commander, Your Majesty," he said, greeting them both with a low bow. Duncan nodded and took his leave, but Cailan stood in the stone corridor dreading Garion's news. "Majesty, the Bann of Rainesfere has arrived. Along with the Arl of Redcliffe."

Any lightening Cailan may have felt at the news of Teagan's arrival was squashed by the fact his older brother Eamon had come as well. Cailan didn't dislike the older of his two uncles. But no matter how well-meaning Arl Eamon of Redcliffe was, he always seemed to make Cailan feel worse about… everything. And with the news Duncan had brought him, Cailan had no real desire to feel worse than he currently did.

But he had to paste on his sunny Theirin smile, because both Guerrin brothers were coming down the hall. Garion glanced nervously between them and Cailan. Protocol normally dictated that guests wait to be escorted to His Majesty by the seneschal. As Teagan neared, Cailan caught him rolling his eyes, and had to stifle a giggle. Eamon carried himself tall and proud, and sincerely believed that being the brother to the former Queen Rowan entitled him to dispatch with protocol. Of course, this only made Cailan want to enforce protocol all the more.

And yet aside from Anora and Loghain, family by marriage, Eamon and Teagan were the only family Cailan now had, so he warmly greeted Teagan and made himself keep smiling when he showed Eamon into the study. "To what do I owe the pleasure, Uncle?" Cailan asked in the lightest, most casual tone he could manage as he closed the door behind them.

Eamon turned his gaze from the portrait of his sister Rowan, hung above the mantle. He smoothed his neat, salt and pepper streaked beard with his fingertips, and though he smiled, his eyes were calculating. "When Teagan mentioned he would be paying you a visit I thought I might drop in. Since you've not responded to my most recent missives."

"I've been occupied with other matters," Cailan said. In truth, he didn't trust himself to respond to Eamon in a way that would be acceptable for anyone—let alone the king.

"Yes, I saw the Warden Commander leaving," Eamon said with a nod. "Surely the country isn't under such a threat that the Grey Wardens take precedence over matters of your family and your reign."

"You tread too heavily, brother," Teagan murmured. He leaned his elbow on the arm of a chair. His cheeks were tinged red. "You overstep the line of common courtesy."

The lesser age difference between them wasn't the only reason Cailan preferred the company of his uncle Teagan over that of Eamon. For Eamon, the middle Guerrin child, everything had always seemed to be about politics and position. It was why Alistair had been sent off to the Chantry, and while Cailan couldn't presume to question his uncle on that, Eamon's constant inquiries about an heir to the throne—essentially, questioning Cailan's sex life—had become grating.

"My concern is for the security of the country our older sister helped free," Eamon snapped at Teagan. "Cailan, the people talk; and not just the nobles. You've been married to Anora for over four years, and Ferelden still has no heir."

Cailan clenched his hands into fists and struggled to keep from swinging at his uncle. "You'd do well to listen to Teagan's advice about the lines of courtesy," he said. His voice was low, his tone one of forced calm. "You presume that this isn't a matter of contention in my marriage as it is," he added. "If you think Anora and I have not spent any time considering this issue, you are sorely wrong, uncle."

"Have you given thought to the fact Anora may be the problem?"

Cailan glanced at Teagan, who pressed his fingertips to the bridge of his nose. His lips were pressed into a thin line as he tried to refrain from saying anything. He realized that Teagan had probably begged Eamon not to do this all the way from Redcliffe, his sensible words falling on deaf ears. Because when Eamon got it in his mind to do something, it generally took an act of the Maker to keep him from doing it.

"Even if you think Anora is the problem, uncle, she is my wife and I'll not put her aside," Cailan said. But even he wasn't sure he'd believed those words. Every time Anora shook her head to his wordless questions, every time he caught wind of a whispered rumor, he told himself that she was his wife and he loved her. There were more important things than an heir. And yet it was only because of the blood of Calenhad that Cailan sat on the throne. He'd never forgotten that horrible Landsmeet after his father's disappearance when several banns suggested Bryce Cousland take the throne. "We've been betrothed since we were children. I love her, and will not give her up over something like this," he said.

"And you believe those lies you've told yourself, nephew?" Eamon asked.

"When Isolde had trouble giving you Connor, did you consider putting her aside in favor of a new wife better suited to breeding?" Cailan snapped. He leaned forward over his desk, palms splayed over the polished wood surface, and grateful that the piece of furniture provided a barrier between himself and his uncle.

"Isolde did give me a son, so that matter is of no consequence any longer," Eamon said. He kept his tone even, but his cheeks were splotched with red.

"After how many years of marriage, Uncle Eamon?" Cailan asked, the volume of his voice raising. "Anora and I have been married for four years. Four. Just because we have no heir _yet_ does not mean we won't ever have one. You presume too much and overstep your place."

"I watched my sister—your _mother_—fight to free this country and help set your father on the throne," Eamon hissed through clenched teeth. "My own father died helping that effort. None of us wants to see the country fall back into foreign hands because there's no Theirin to take the throne should the unthinkable ever happen."

"Foreign hands?" Cailan asked. He was nearly shaking with anger. "Like those of your wife?"

"Isolde has proven loyal to me and to Ferelden time and again!" Eamon shouted while Teagan buried his face in his hands. "How dare you impugn our honor?"

"If people talk about me having no heir as of yet, they talk of you and your foreign wife," Cailan said. It was a low blow but he'd long passed the time for playing nice. "My wife at least is Ferelden born and bred same as myself, same as my father and mother before me. If you think I don't have the country's best interests in my mind as well, you severely underestimate me as a Fereldan and as your _king_."

Cailan's words hung in the air, nearly as palpable as the tension between them. Teagan dared to look up, and Cailan caught the concern in his other uncle's eyes. He sighed. "There is one other option, Uncle Eamon. We've spoken of it before, and though you don't see it as a wise course of action, it would allow for a Theirin to take the throne should the…unthinkable happen." He'd never liked to think of his father's passing when he was younger, and didn't care to think of it much even now, especially with zero physical proof that Maric was truly dead. He cared to think of his own passing even less, though he supposed with the possibility of a Blight on the horizon it could become reality.

Eamon shook his head, the straight, perfectly combed locks flying into disarray. "No. Alistair belongs to the Chantry now. He has for nearly a decade. He may have taken his templar vows for all we know." Cailan knew better; but it would prove fruitless to argue when Eamon had his mind so adamantly set against Alistair as a potential heir. Once again politics ruled over family, and family _let_ politics do it.

Cailan sighed. "Uncle Eamon, please go," he said, lifting his head to meet Eamon's surprised gaze. "It's clear we'll never see eye to eye on this, and I'd like you to leave. You're welcome to stay in Denerim as long as you like, as usual, but I don't care to see you for a long while." He kept his eyes trained on Eamon, though it was difficult, especially when the Arl of Redcliffe's face went pale and his mouth hung slack with surprise at being told off.

Teagan arose as well, but Cailan shook his head. "I'd have you stay, Uncle Teagan. I have some… questions about the Rainesfere orchard production," he said, flicking his gaze between one uncle nearly out the door, and the other nearly out of his seat. Teagan nodded, and they both waited until Eamon had closed the door behind him and left them alone.

"You had little interest in the orchards as a boy, Cailan; I don't think you've changed all that much," Teagan said after a moment of silence.

Cailan took the chair opposite his uncle and propped his feet up on the glossy table between them. He slouched in his seat. "I know he means well, but I'm ready to forbid him from ever setting foot in the palace again, and to have all his letters to me burned," Cailan said at last. "And I know you tried to keep it from happening. Thanks for that."

Teagan nodded. "I'm only sorry I couldn't do more. But when my brother gets it in his mind that things must be a certain way, there is little swaying him." They sat in the quiet for a time. "Do you wish to speak of your situation?"

Cailan shrugged. "Talking about it won't change it. Anora and I have talked about it until we're blue in the face. We argue more than we actually talk now," he confessed. "And she barely lets me touch her."

"Have you been with others?" Teagan asked.

"Here and there. If there have been any scares or hints of a pregnancy among them, I've never been told, and Cornelia keeps a sharp eye on the girls. Sanga at the Pearl, as well." He stared down at his clasped hands. "So the problem may well be with me; though convincing Anora to lay with another man is about as feasible as making the Chantry approve blood magic." He glanced up at the portrait of his mother, her slight sadness forever locked in time through the magic of an artist's brush. "I understand why Eamon feels the way he does about Alistair," he said at last. He didn't care anymore if Teagan knew that Cailan knew he had a brother. "But he's all about what's best for Ferelden, same as Loghain and Anora, and surprise, surprise, same as me. And if everyone is so convinced that another Theirin is what's best then… why not let me recognize him?"

Teagan shrugged. "I see your logic, Cailan. I see theirs, as well. I think there is a sort of romanticism people think of when they consider you and Anora having a child." Cailan gave him a quizzical look, one eyebrow dipping lower than the other in confusion. "Your father and her father freed Ferelden. So their children's marriage was both romantic and symbolic to the people. And a child of _their _children would represent all that is most glorious about free Ferelden."

Cailan nodded slowly. "I see your point. But… Teagan, it's our marriage. Not theirs. We should be allowed to make our choices same as any of them. Same as Eamon marrying and breeding with an Orlesian." He held up a palm to stop Teagan from arguing. "I do like Aunt Isolde well enough," he said. "And I am happy for them that they have Connor. But Eamon stayed true to himself when many, I'm sure, told him not to. Why does he now think he has the right to do the same to me?"

Teagan shrugged. "I wish I could tell you, Cailan. I really do. Perhaps the years have blinded my brother. Perhaps, like he said, he just wants to see Ferelden stay independent, and preserve what our sister helped your father achieve."

Cailan stood and stretched. "I don't know if I can say I think you're right, but I can see your point and your logic a lot better than Eamon's," he said at last. "I've sent word to the stables to have Strider and Arod saddled," he said. "Shall we take to the forests?"

"I'd like nothing better, Your Majesty," Teagan said, rising from his chair and giving a ridiculously low bow that left them both laughing.

On horseback, Cailan usually felt free. But today, even with Teagan beside him on his handsome new roan stallion, he surveyed his lands as he rode and felt a crushing weight. There was something horrible on the horizon that threatened to destroy everything around him. And he wasn't sure if the Blight was the only horrible thing lurking out there.


	22. Men Who Embrace Destiny

**Author's Note: **Last chapter ended on kind of a downer. This one is a bit more cheery, even if it takes a bit to get there. I figure Maric's boys deserve some chance at happiness, right? Especially since we all know what's coming. I got the name Ser Edgetho from _Beowulf_; that's the name of Beowulf's father. Yep, guess what I'm teaching at work right now. The chapter title comes from one of Flemeth's quotes in DA2; it seemed to fit for Duncan, Cailan, and Alistair. Thanks as always for taking the time to read! :)

**Author's Note 2 (9/25): **Thanks to CouslandSpitFire's attention to detail, I'd made an error in Eryhn and Talrew's weapon choices for the final tournament round. I've since gone back and edited. Thanks, CouslandSpitFire!

* * *

><p><em>Chapter 22: Men Who Embrace Destiny<em>

He feels fourteen again, full of anticipation and wonder. He's surrounded by people but feels alone, just out for a stroll to the fighting ring to get away from it all. People scurry out of his way and bow in deference and he looks right past them, eyes trained on the ring. Loghain stalks behind him, but today Cailan doesn't even feel the weight of the Teyrn's harsh, suspicious stare. Only one thing matters.

"King Cailan. A pleasure to have you preside." Tavish, Denerim's Knight-Commander, bows low. He doesn't look much different from the last time Cailan met with him, six years ago. Only the purple smudges beneath his eyes, either from sleepless nights chasing rogue mages or from the need for a lyrium fix, belie the fact that he's aged at all.

"The pleasure is all mine, Knight-Commander," Cailan says with a smile. But it's not his usual blank, empty smile. The corners of his blue eyes crinkle and there is a boyish excitement in his gaze. "Who are the favorites today?"

Tavish joins him as they walk to the grandstand. "Ser Talrew has overcome many Chasind in the name of the Maker. His skills with a greatsword nearly approach yours in reputation." Cailan nods, not too interested. "And Ser Erhyn's prowess with sword and shield is unmatched. I believe you will see great things from them today."

Cailan waits but Tavish offers nothing more. He longs to ask about his favored candidate, but keeps silent. He's kept silent so long he doesn't know if he'll ever be able to say anything, even when the time for secrecy has passed. Instead he keeps his expression bright and takes his seat in the front and center of the grandstand. People file in and take places on either side of him: the Grand Cleric, eager to watch her charges display their prowess; Teyrn Loghain, grim as usual (Cailan hardly knows why the Teyrn bothers with any of this if he's always going to be so miserable); Tavish, sitting next to his superior; and directly to Cailan's left, Duncan. Cailan gives the Warden-Commander a sidelong glance, and catches Duncan's ever so slight nod. He tries to calm his squirming innards.

Tavish and the Grand Cleric make some sort of speech that he barely hears, but knows well enough to smile and clap when it's over. He rises on cue and waves to his people, gathered for the tournament and eager for a day of merriment at the Chantry's expense. He gestures for Duncan to rise. "At the end of the tournament, I shall recruit the worthiest competitor for the Grey Wardens," Duncan proclaims. His voice is normally so gentle, so even and wise, that it's surprising to hear him project across the arena to the gathering lines of templars.

"And I, King Cailan of Ferelden, do hereby grant the Crown's support of the Warden-Commander's decision," Cailan proclaims. He hears Loghain snort. He resists the urge to kick his father-in-law in the shins, and instead amuses himself through the first round of competition by picturing Loghain being mauled by rabid Mabari hounds.

He squints past the pairs of templars fighting with quarterstaffs, to the competitors waiting in the stands on the other side of the ring. He tries to make out the familiar features of Alistair, his brother, but cannot discern much more than blurs at this distance. He leans back in his seat, eyes on the narrowing field of quarterstaff fighters, mind caught between the past when he sneaked around looking for the truth, and the future, when he must decide what to do with the truth.

Ser Edgetho is proclaimed the winner of the quarterstaff division, and he bows low before Duncan and Cailan, his pale hair matted to his reddened face and sweat glistening on his brow. Duncan nods once politely, dismissing him. Cailan watches Edgetho rejoin his friends, who clap him on the back like brothers would. And he wonders if Alistair shares this camaraderie with the other templars; if he's had this sense of brotherhood. Or if he's been as lonely and restless as Cailan has been, knowing about the secrets that separate them from others and from one another.

The afternoon passes slowly. Cailan claps and waves on cue, as well-trained and groomed as any Mabari. He glances at the Grand Cleric, with her stiff spine and pursed lips; catches the way _she_ glances at Duncan, who is completely immersed in the competition. Her eyes are narrowed and hard. At one point her glare lands on Cailan and they both look away.

The first round of the archery competition is announced, along with the templars competing. Cailan sits up straighter as Sers Talrew and Eryhn take the field alongside Alistair. The three approach the grandstand and bow low before their Grand Cleric and their king. When they rise, Cailan fixes his eyes on Alistair. Alistair catches the stare and cocks his head to the side ever so slightly. Cailan nods, silently willing his brother luck, and then the three templars turn and take positions.

As they've aged the resemblance has grown stronger. Cailan can see Maric in Alistair's strong jaw and straight nose, and even in the mischievous glint in his light brown eyes. But his brother wears his sandy hair short, spiked up in the front, rather than long the way Maric did, and Cailan now does. But it's just a small difference, and as Cailan watches Alistair miserably fail the archery trials, he still feels a measure of pride knowing that it's his brother out there.

Someone brings him a cup of mead that he sips; another servant brings bread and cheese. At one point the Grand Cleric excuses herself, and Cailan swears Loghain's sleeping. But Duncan watches the field of candidates, evaluating potential Grey Wardens with a keen eye. And as other tests of prowess pass, Cailan feels a sinking in his soul. Alistair tries. Effort is written all over his face in the set of his jaw; in the sweat beading on his forehead and upper lip; in the measured steps he takes and the way he maneuvers sword and shield. But it's just not enough. As Tavish predicted, Talrew and Eryhn are the clear favorites, and as the sun begins to sink in the sky they circle one another in the ring under Duncan's watchful eye and Cailan's nervous stare.

Eryhn fights with her longsword and shield while Talrew wields his greatsword as easily as a child would a wooden practice blade. Cailan grudgingly admires his talent, and can't help but gasp with the rest of the audience as the templars' vastly different fighting skill sets clash in the ring. But even as he admires their abilities, his heart sinks. Especially when he stares across the field to see Alistair alone in the competitors' stands. He wants to will his strength and his faith into his brother, but he can't. All he can do is watch the two top contenders for Duncan's coveted position, and see his chance at having a brother slip through his fingers.

Even when he glances at Duncan, the Warden-Commander is focused on the two knights and is oblivious to his king.

Cailan spends the rest of the duel reminding himself that he said he would support Duncan's choice. As the king he cannot rescind his word, and he doesn't intend to; but as a person, he doesn't have to like it. He coaches himself to accept Duncan's choice. He prepares his blank smile. He claps when Talrew forces Eryhn off-balance with a hard pommel strike to her shield. She staggers back and falls and Talrew holds his sword to her throat until she yields, and everyone claps as the tournament ends.

Applause dies down. The golden rays of sunlight bathe the grandstand, blinding Cailan. He shields his eyes and rises along with Duncan.

The Warden-Commander holds up a hand for silence as the other competitors join Talrew and Eryhn on the field. "Templars, novitiates, and initiates," Duncan begins. "I have watched each of you fight today, showcasing your multitudes of skills, and I must say, the Chantry has a formidable force at her disposal." Cailan catches the note of irony in Duncan's voice and sees that the Grand Cleric isn't too amused. He focuses on her displeasure rather than his own twisting gut and tingling fingers. "The Grey Wardens require warriors with battle prowess, and there are those among you who have been tested in battle and proven yourselves worthy." Talrew puffs up his chest, and Cailan knows that he must be Duncan's choice; winning the tournament overall just sealed the deal.

"However, we also sacrifice a great deal to become what we are." His voice is haunted, and for a moment Cailan remembers his father and the way he never wanted to talk about their trip to the Deep Roads so many years ago. "The life of a Grey Warden is one of selflessness; you become wholly devoted to our cause. Which means my decision must be about more than sheer battle prowess." His dark eyes scan the gathered warriors as the sun's rays slant even more. "I seek not just a warrior, but a person of character, willing to sacrifice him or herself for the greater good." Pause. Cailan wants to kick Duncan for drawing this out.

"With that said I choose Alistair."

There is an uproar from the templars and an outraged shout from the Grand Cleric. Loghain stirs, his icy eyes narrowed and his face even grimmer. Talrew looks ready to impale himself (or Duncan or Alistair) on his sword…

Only Cailan is smiling. Ten years of sneaking about has finally paid off.

Alistair glances up at his king. At his brother. And he smiles, too.


	23. Ostagar Observations

_Chapter 23: Ostagar Observations_

Cailan misses the palace, if only because deadbolts provide greater protection against Loghain's intrusions than cowed guards too in awe of the Hero of River Dane. "I still do not understand why you couldn't just fortify Denerim. The ruins of Ostagar put us at a tactical disadvantage," the Teyrn says.

They've been over this before. "I'll not leave the people of my country between the Wilds and Denerim to suffer," Cailan says yet again. "Ostagar kept Chasind out of Ferelden centuries ago, and will stop the Blight before it even begins, now," he says. Again. Loghain, ever the shrewd tactician, paces Cailan's tent—more like a collapsible building—and fiddles with one of his braids. Cailan wants to cut the hair off with his greatsword. He wants to kick Loghain out of his tent. He watches Loghain pace.

"If this is a true Blight and not just a darkspawn incursion, then our numbers are too few," Loghain says at last.

They've been over this before. "The Empress has a legion of chevaliers awaiting my word," Cailan says.

The effect is instantaneous. "Never!" Loghain bellows and Cailan delights in the way his father-in-law's face reddens. "Do you know why you don't know your grandmother? Because _Orlesian sympathizers_ murdered her in front of your father. And you don't know your grandfather, Arl Rendorn, because he was killed at the battle of West Hill and his head put on a pike by the _Orlesian _usurper king. Your mother and your father and I drove those… those… _lickspittles_ out of Ferelden and I will be damned if I let them back in!"

"And I'll be damned if I let you forget who your king is," Cailan says. "You're excused, Teyrn Loghain." He hides his grin as the teyrn storms out. Lickspittles. Celene will like that one.

* * *

><p>If anyone asks, Cailan just smiles and says the letters are from Anora. No one questions it, and he quickly shuffles them into the pile of other missives from Duncan, Teagan, Eamon, and Bryce. He's burned anything Eamon has sent, still resentful after their last conversation. Duncan's letters, he pores over and calculates numbers in his head. Teagan has always been his favorite uncle, but even now his subtle prodding to forgive Eamon, if only for the kingdom's sake, has become too obvious for Cailan's tastes. Bryce readily offers the services of Highever's troops, and promises to send the vanguard with Fergus within the next few days.<p>

But the letters "from Anora" Cailan reads alone, in his tent, when everyone else is asleep save the perimeter guards. And then he burns them, lest Loghain stumble across them. As he's thought, Celene is highly amused by Loghain's lickspittle comment. She's also disappointed that he can't learn to put the past behind them, but writes that she understands. And will keep her chevalier legion in reserve should Cailan require it. "A Blight is serious business that may affect us all," she writes. "May the Maker bless you for your vigilance and proactive stance."

Duncan's letters are not so encouraging. He's been through the Brecilian Forest, but the Dalish elf recruit he'd been eyeing fell ill; the Keeper's magic helped, but by the time Duncan reached him, Theron Mahariel was dead. Denerim is chaotic; uprisings in the Alienage have prevented Duncan from entering, even with his Warden Commander status. Cailan makes a mental note to see to the Alienage upon his return to Denerim, whether his guards like it or not. He's tired of people thinking he can't run the kingdom, because he hasn't been given the chance to.

No word from Anora, and Cailan actually isn't surprised. She's been growing colder, more distant over the last year and a half. Some nights he falls asleep alone and wakes up the same way. It bothered him at first. Then he realized he could hog the entire bed. The nights he doesn't want to be alone, he finds there's no lack of willing women ready to satisfy their king.

Anora protested Cailan's plan to head off the darkspawn at Ostagar at first, but when he refused to capitulate to her, she closed herself off from him, seemingly for good. He'd hoped she'd come to him the night before he left, at least.

He picks up his quill and a sheet of vellum. _Thank you for your generous offer. I shall keep you apprised of the situation,_ he writes to Celene. _And perhaps when this is all over we can discuss our options,_ he adds. He folds and seals the letter, then slips a sovereign to his most trusted messenger. The elf slides into the night, headed west.

* * *

><p>It stands a head taller than Cailan does, all blackness and rot and rust. Even in his dwarven-forged, golden heavy plate armor, Cailan blanches slightly and is grateful for the grip of his gauntlets on his greatsword. This is different than a practice dummy. It's even worse than sparring with Loghain or his father. He thanks the Maker for muscle memory as his blade slides into the Hurlock's abdomen and the beast sinks to the ground, spraying black ichor all over.<p>

Cailan stands his ground even though he wants to run and let the two dozen or two Fereldan Grey Wardens handle the skirmish. They face the darkspawn with no fear on their faces; if anything, most of them are smiling and laughing while Cailan and his men hold position and ward off the advancing foe. The Wardens are better trained for this; but Cailan won't quit the field. These are his men, and he is their king and he will be damned if he lets them see his fear.

* * *

><p>"Andraste's fiery arse! Look at you!" Fergus exclaims, clapping his gauntleted hand on Cailan's shoulder. "All decked out. How's it feel to actually fight?"<p>

"I figured you'd tell me," Cailan says, clapping Fergus right back. It's good to see a familiar face. Duncan hasn't returned yet, and Loghain's stormy rants, and worse, brooding silences, got old a day out of Denerim. Eamon has written to say the Redcliffe forces can be ready to move at Cailan's word, but Cailan can't seem to swallow his anger and pride. Besides, Eamon probably just wants in on the glory.

"My father's marching with Rendon Howe," Fergus explains when Cailan asks after Bryce's whereabouts. "Amaranthine's troops were delayed, so he sent me on ahead. Duncan should be coming with him, though. Highever was his last stop, he said."

"I'll be relieved when Duncan gets here," Cailan says. "The rest of the Wardens keep to themselves; I feel like an outsider whenever I go near their camp." He doesn't mention that he's been keeping an eye out for Alistair. "Even the two new recruits he sent with his second stick with the other Wardens, and they haven't even officially joined yet."

Fergus dismisses his men to the full army camp in the other part of Ostagar's ruins, separated from the king and the Grey Wardens by crumbling stone and majestic pines that seem to brush the clouds. "What's the situation?" he asks once they're out of earshot.

"Worse than I thought," Cailan confides and his smile falters. The lines around his eyes are more pronounced, and he can understand now why his father always seemed to look older than he actually was. "We've engaged them a couple times, though it's only been small parties. Even then it's all we can do to keep from being decimated."

"That bad."

Cailan nods. "I can't imagine those… _things_ being unleashed on Ferelden," he confesses. He looks around the bustling camp: the Mabari kennel master feeding his dogs and tending to the sickened ones; mages in the Fade; Loghain's tent with the Gwaren colors and heraldry flying in the autumn wind. They are all that stand between the horrid creatures of darkness and decay, and his country and people. "It's awful. I can only hope Duncan finds promising recruits. And Loghain gets the sense to allow the Orlesian Wardens across the border."

"Why wouldn't he?" Fergus asks. "You're the king and this is your country."

"And the soldiers at the border listen to their general," Cailan says. "I have no actual proof, but sometimes I think he gives his own orders." Fergus raises an eyebrow and Cailan nods. "Like I said, no proof; and I know my father trusted him with his life, but… I'm not my father."

"And Loghain doesn't quite get that, I take it."

Though Cailan knows Alistair is his actual brother, they never really knew each other. So in this moment in time, he is grateful to Fergus, the next closest thing to a brother that he's got.

They trade stories of family; or rather, Fergus tells Cailan about Oriana and Oren, who has begun learning to ride, and wants to learn to fight with a sword. "He pronounces the 'w' sound when he says it," Fergus says. "It's adorable, though it drives Fianna crazy. Can you believe my father's leaving her in charge of Highever while we're gone?"

Cailan does smile at that; he doesn't know Fianna Cousland very well, but Fergus has told stories. And if Bryce is leaving her in charge of Highever, the place will either be a disaster zone or a giant party when this is all over. He tells Fergus this and they laugh, the last vestige of camaraderie that they share before Fergus takes a scouting party of Highever troops deep into the Korcari Wilds south of Ostagar.

* * *

><p>Another day, another skirmish. Cailan finds himself less disgusted by the darkspawn now, and realizes they're fairly easy to kill. They're soulless monsters bent on destroying all he holds dear. He chants that to himself as his long blade slices and impales bodies. Fergus hasn't returned, so Cailan's still not sure just how large the incoming force of darkspawn is. He just keeps fighting, like his father did before him.<p>

Another letter from Celene, promising chevaliers; another denial from Loghain, insisting that they can handle this without Orlesian support. A messenger brings word that Duncan approaches with one recruit.

Only one. Cailan feels his spirit sinking. There's the soldier from Redcliffe and the thief from Denerim, and now this last one. And from what he knows of the Grey Wardens, there's the potential that not all of them will survive. It was something Duncan told him when he all but begged the Warden Commander to recruit his brother.

He wipes the blackened blood off his armor. He needs a bath, which may be about the only other thing he misses about palace life. Locking doors, a warm bath on command… and the pretty elven girl who tends his bath. Cailan sighs and pastes on his smile and heads to the bridge that spans the deep chasm slicing through the ruins like a wound.

"King Cailan!" Duncan calls, before even reaching him. His recruit trails behind him, a girl of medium height and lithe build with reddish hair. She stares at the ground, her boot tracing the stone pattern in the bridge while her Mabari hound sits at attention. "I didn't expect…"

"A royal welcome?" Cailan tears his eyes from the recruit, trying to shake the thought that she is somehow familiar. Perhaps she just reminds him of a woman he's been with. "And I see you brought your newest recruit. Allow me to be the first to welcome you to Ostagar. The Wardens will benefit greatly with you in their ranks."

The girl's response is a harsh laugh. "Thank you, Your Majesty, but I doubt that." She looks up, her hazel eyes piercing him. The autumn sun is warm on his face and neck, but he still feels himself go cold.

"Fianna?" he asks. He looks around Duncan and Fianna, but there's no sign of Bryce or the Amaranthine army. "Where…"

Duncan edges away from Fianna, who stands with her arms crossed over her chest and her expression blank, though Cailan can see anger and grief in her puffy, reddened eyes. "Arl Howe has proven himself a traitor, Majesty," he says in a low voice. "Once the main force had left his troops surprised Highever Castle, slaughtering everyone. We barely escaped."

Everyone. That means Fergus's wife and child are dead as well as his parents. Cailan feels himself reeling with rage. "As soon as this is over I swear I will turn my armies north and deal with Howe myself," he says. Fianna overhears and gives him a look. She's so different from Fergus; she's much harder to read, and he can't tell if she's pleased with his reaction, or indifferent. He remembers when his father disappeared and the world kept moving, forcing him on. He wishes she would believe him if he told her things would get better eventually. He doubts it.

Duncan asks about things as they walk, Fianna and her dog trailing them. Cailan looks back and notices her glancing around. "Fergus went into the Wilds on a scouting expedition," he says, and she looks like she got caught doing something wrong. "He's not returned yet, and there's been no word," he adds. "But if I can do anything…"

Fianna's only answer is a shrug. Cailan recalls the few times he's seen her in Denerim and all the stories Fergus has shared. This is not that girl, and he tries to keep his anger at Rendon Howe in check.

"You know? I'm not even sure this is a true Blight," Cailan says at last, grinning like an idiot at Fianna and Duncan. Fianna only raises an eyebrow. Duncan sighs.

Duncan doesn't believe him, and Cailan doesn't even believe himself. But he keeps telling himself that, because it helps keep him from thinking about the fact that everything crumbling. It will crash down upon him, and even his armor won't be enough to save him.


	24. Sneaking

**Author's Note:** So this may not be the glorious and happy reunion I think Cailan and Alistair deserve, but I think it's the best they can manage under the circumstances of preparing to go to war against darkspawn, and having gone the last 10-11 years knowing about one another, but unable to really do anything about it. And I think it's only because time's growing so short that Cailan's like, "screw it." Speaking of time growing short, I have three chapters, total, planned for after this, and then _Sneaking_... is snuck. Kind of sad in a way. Okay, I'm done lamenting.

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><p><em>Chapter 24: Sneaking<em>

There is no darkness in an army camp. Fires burn long into the night; men on watch warm their hands from the autumn chill. Candlelight and lanterns glow through tent flaps and the moon hangs overhead, silvery round, immense and silent. It is the only thing that _is_ silent about the camp.

Fires crackle, watchmen talk in low voices. The Mabari hounds whine in their kennels. The ones who have been most heavily involved in the darkspawn attacks have fallen ill; the keeper says it's the taint. His voice is steady but his face is contorted with grief for his hounds. Sometimes there is the occasional shout of terror from the Grey Warden encampment: the nightmares that mark the Warden's existence. You're not a Warden, but you know about them. And you know that there is something you must do before tomorrow.

You learned how to wriggle under a loosely staked tent wall when you were young and your father took you on lengthy trips. Some nights he confined you to quarters; you didn't like it and found your own way around it. In a way your entire reign has been about finding your own way.

As far as the guards know you're asleep within. But out here, with your hood up about your face, you're just another man trying to ward off the chill of the evening. You nod greetings to those you pass, but very few acknowledge you. It's a relief, really. You're tired of the golden armor; tired of smiling like an overconfident idiot; tired of projecting an image. It's as if that's all people see: little more than a figurehead to make Ferelden look good while smarter, harder working people like Loghain and Anora do all the work. It stings, because the people who think that about you are the same people you are trying so desperately to save from the darkspawn.

The Wardens' infirmary is on the darkened edges of the camp. Two Wardens in their blue and silver livery stop you, but all it takes is pushing back your cloak and they let you pass. Duncan is nowhere to be seen, but that's alright. Lately it feels that he's frustrated with you. But if you can't depend on the aid of the Grey Wardens against darkspawn, who _can_ you go to?

"Your Majesty," the Warden Alistair says when he catches sight of you. He's grown since you saw him last, even though it was only six months ago. Perhaps he's filled out; or maybe it's just that he seems more confident now that he's not under the Chantry's constant scrutiny. Alistair fumbles to stand, nearly overturning a bucket of water on his lap and almost tumbling off his small stool. He keeps his balance, though his cheeks turn a splotchy red. "My apologies. I just wasn't expecting anyone, let alone… the king." Alistair stares at the ground, though you catch him giving you a sidelong glance. "Might I ask what brings you here?"

What _does_ bring you here? That question should not be so difficult, nor should it elicit so many answers that you can't find one to give. "How is she?" you ask instead.

Fergus's younger sister lies on a camp cot, her face pale and drenched with sweat. Her eyelids flutter; sometimes she opens her eyes, but they are not the greenish you remember. The irises have a milky sheen to them. Then she groans slightly and her eyelids droop. Her rapid breathing is worrisome, but Alistair remains calm.

"It looks worse than it is," he says, wringing out a cloth and wiping the sweat from Fianna's forehead. "She's dreaming; all Wardens have nightmares, especially when we Join; and Joining during a Blight is supposed to make things worse." He smiles at the fitfully sleeping new Warden, his hand lingering on her fevered forehead. "Poor thing doesn't know what she's in for."

"Then you do believe it's a Blight," you say, overjoyed that your brother shares your feelings.

Alistair looks about, as if he's said something wrong. He nods and you know that expression on his face. It's the expression your father had so often, the one that said he didn't want to talk about something, even if he really wanted to. A lot of times, he got that expression when the topic of Alistair came up.

"I heard your other two recruits didn't fare well," you say instead of pressuring the Blight issue.

"No… that they didn't." Alistair runs his hand through his hair. "Luckily Fianna here is stronger than she let on."

"Their whole family is… was," you say. "Her brother's a good friend of mine. He's not back from the Wilds yet." This is worrisome, because it's been nearly a fortnight that Fergus has been gone. And nearing a week since Fianna arrived in camp. You force a chuckle. "I wonder how he'll react when he finds out his crazy little sister is a Grey Warden now."

Alistair shrugs as he stifles a yawn. The Joining was two nights ago. It suddenly occurs to you that your brother has had no sleep since then. "Alistair… you should get some rest," you tell him. His warm golden-brown eyes survey you with suspicion, and the quirk of his eyebrow, a trait both you and your father possess as well, belie that he is thinking; calculating. "Even if you only get an hour or two," you say. "When the tides of darkspawn finally do break upon us, we'll want all the Wardens we have in the best shape possible." It is a pitiful cover up; but years of politics has made it nigh impossible for you to just come out and say that you're worried that your brother is so worn out.

Alistair glances at Fianna, who has gone from a febrile shaking and tossing, to lying so still she has the semblance of death. Then he yawns. He looks embarrassed, but only for a moment because you both burst into laughter. "You sound just like a Mabari," you tell him.

"Well. I was raised by dogs," Alistair says with a shrug and a slight grin. You return the smile. But is he being merely facetious, or getting in a dig at you and your father?

You try not to think about it for the next couple hours while you sit next to Fianna, the wild younger sibling of your best friend. The girl your father considered betrothing you to. The girl whose reputation was as shady as the taverns she frequented. The girl who is only here because her family is dead. "I'll kill Howe myself if I have to," you tell her in a soft voice, even though she is so immersed in her nightmares she probably can't hear you. "It won't bring them back. Nothing can ever bring them back," he says, thinking of his father. "But if it will help, then I will do it."

"Did you know her at all?" Alistair's voice startles you from the haze of half-sleep that you've been drifting in and out of for at least an hour, maybe more. "I got the impression that you noble types sort of ran together."

Alistair's impressions aren't that far off. "I know her older brother better; I mostly heard stories from him, rumors at court, that sort of thing. She's been through a lot to get here, but if she comes around, she'll be a real spitfire," you tell him.

You get up and Alistair resumes his vigil. "What's going to happen tomorrow?" he asks you at last.

"Honestly? I don't know," you say. "Ideally we end the Blight before it even truly begins."

"And if we don't?"

Your laughter is harsh and humorloess. "I'm trying not to think about it," you tell him. "My goal is to save my country. Our country."

"Your Majesty…"

"Ferelden is _our_ country," you tell him. The longer this night goes on, the more you realize that time is short. "Our father fought to free Ferelden, and I won't see it imprisoned again, this time by darkspawn."

"King Cailan…" Alistair's blushing again. He can't meet your eyes.

You think of Fergus and Fianna, so close, yet unable to do anything for one another. You stand here before your brother, and you will be damned if you leave him without doing your best to ensure that he is safe. "Alistair, please tell me you'll do whatever it takes to save Ferelden," you tell him. His retort dies on his lips. "Promise you'll do whatever is asked of you on the battlefield, and after, to save our land." A few hours can't make up for the years between the two of you, but it has solidified your plan. Maybe you can't save all of Ferelden, but you can save at least two people who matter to you. "Alistair, promise me."

"Fine, I promise, Your Majesty."

The honorific stings. "Please. Just Cailan."

He blinks. "Um… okay… fine, I promise… Cailan." Your name is alien to him. You wish it weren't, but you can't fault him for it after what he's gone through over the years.

"Thank you, Alistair." You don your cloak and put the hood up. Outside, the moon has long since risen, and the watch has changed shifts. Once again, you are anonymous, just another person sneaking through the camp after hours. You slip under your loosened tent wall and no one is any wiser.

You recall your advice to your brother and consider getting some sleep, but the very idea nearly makes you laugh aloud. Being unable to sleep shouldn't be so funny. For one moment you consider asking Duncan to Join the Wardens yourself. Maybe you'd have some awful dreams, but at least you'd be sleeping.

You stifle the laughter. You laugh so hard, and so silently, that tears fall.


	25. Shadow of the Day

**Author's Note: **The title of this segment comes from the Linkin Park song of the same name. I had my Cailan playlist on in the car the other day (yes, yes, go ahead and mock the fangirl) and this song came on and the line, "Sometimes solutions aren't so simple; sometimes goodbye's the only way" really struck me. I knew I wanted to show Cailan from Loghain's perspective at the end right along, and that line really summed up Loghain's decision. Two more chapters after this... the entire story will be done before November. I promise that.

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><p><em>Chapter 25: Shadow of the Day<em>

He stands on the precipice watching everything he loves, everything he has worked for, fall apart. He watches the darkspawn rush into battle like breaking waves while flaming arrows rain overhead in some grotesque mockery of a storm.

The plan could work, if their numbers were greater. "Numbers alone do not win a battle," Cailan said as he donned his armor earlier. He smiled and his eyes were hollow as he said it. Even the king knows it is hopeless.

Loghain calculates: something he's always been good at. The Redcliffe army could have increased their numbers dramatically, but Eamon and Cailan were too proud to back down from some idiot argument. Maker forbid that anyone in that family actually yield and put himself aside for the greater good, after all. Amaranthine has not come, an instance Loghain finds most interesting, and intends to squeeze the reasons out of Howe the next time he sees him. And the two dozen Grey Wardens, against the never-ending tide of darkspawn are laughable. Even if they had their fabled gryphons they wouldn't stand a chance.

He watches from his precipice, the Gwaren forces awaiting orders. Ser Cauthrien stands at his side, her clever eyes darting between the battlefield and her general. "Orders, Your Grace?" she asks yet again. She casts a look over her shoulder, to the Tower of Ishal. "What's taking so long?" she asks, more to herself than to Loghain.

Damn Cailan for forcing Maric's… indiscretion and Bryce's… embarrassment to do what the mages could have done much sooner. The two newest and most inept Grey Wardens sent to do the most important task? "We must send our best," Cailan said in that tone that brooked no argument. "And you will remember who is king," he told Loghain before Loghain could dare to question the boy.

The problem is that Loghain remembers who _was_ king. He remembers a man who had a backbone, and who was willing to give everything of himself to make Ferelden a better place. He remembers Rowan, who supported Maric even when it caused her great pain and she turned to Loghain out of desperation. He looks at Cailan, gleaming like a beacon on the battlefield and resents everything that boy is. Ferelden deserves better than a child playing at war, to whom knights and regiments are but toys to move about for his leisure and amusement.

A cheer rises from the field and Loghain bristles in his suit of heavy plate. The front lines, including the Grey Wardens and King Cailan, have moved. "Damned fool," he grumbles, but whether he means Cailan or Alistair and whatever the Cousland brat's name is, he's not sure. And as he watches the Fereldan army funnel out of the gorge and onto the field, Loghain knows all is lost.

He remembers what Maric said, all those years ago while the three of them huddled in the cold after the disastrous rout at West Hill. "I would rather die than have the blood of all those men on my hands," he'd said. Loghain closes his eyes and listens to the fighting below. Is that what motivates Cailan? Is he truly Maric's son, that he would rather die than lose Ferelden to the soulless _things_ that threaten it? But try as he might, Loghain cannot see past Cailan's gilded vanity. Not even the Grey Wardens are entirely convinced this is a true Blight.

_Next time I don't come to your rescue. You're on your own._ His own words to Maric echo in his mind. The discussions they had replay in his memory. "Don't let West Hill happen ever again," Maric had told him. "One man isn't worth losing everything. Even if it is me." In which case 'me' meant Maric, the king. And Loghain promised. Even if that one man is his best friend's son, shining on the battlefield in all his glory.

"Teyrn Loghain! The beacon!" Cauthrien's voice slices through his memories as effectively as her double-edged greatsword slices through darkspawn.

The cheer from the army, awaiting Loghain's flanking maneuver, is like thunder. He stares at the beacon, lit too late, but he honestly didn't expect much else from Maric's bastard and Bryce's youngest; apparently the only thing she can do quickly is a roomful of nobles' sons, if the rumors are true. The orange glow of the Tower's flame is a saving grace to the men on the field, waiting for the Gwaren reinforcements. He imagines Cailan turning to stare up at the signal fire. Imagines Maric's son waiting with that goofy, overconfident grin plastered on his face. He tries not to see Maric and Rowan in that face, but it is impossible.

He looks over his men, waiting for orders. He looks at Cauthrien, snapped to attention. "Sound… the retreat," he says slowly.

Her eyes widen even as icy wind lashes loose locks of dark hair about her face. "But what about the king? Should we not—"

Loghain grabs her wrist. "Do as I _command_," he growls. Cauthrien's question is justified, but it only reminds him of what he will have to bear. It stings worse than the whipping wind sending shards of ice into his eyes. Cauthrien meets his eyes and stares into his gaze longer than most people can. It's part of why he chose her as his second. When she rips her arm from his grasp she nods grudgingly. Her capacity to take orders, even when she disagrees, is another part of it.

"Pull out! All of you! Let's move," she shouts to the ordered ranks of troops. Loghain turns his back on them. He hears the clank of armor behind him as his men retreat. Hears the murmurs of confusion, of relief. He can't save Cailan, but he can save his forces, and just maybe save Ferelden.

He stares up at the Tower of Ishal, a spike piercing the stormy night. He cannot look back down into the chasm.

_Maric. Rowan. Anora. Forgive me._

He turns his back and begins the long march north to Denerim.


	26. Mad World

**Author's Note: **Carrying on with my penchant for musical inspiration, this was influenced by the song "Mad World" which is, according to Karebear and deagh, the ultimate depressing song. I found its use in "Gears of War 3" to be particularly effective, and realized it fits Ostagar quite well. I apologize in advance for the depressing nature of this chapter.

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><p><em>Chapter 26: Mad World<em>

The woman to his left has the tatters of Highever livery hanging over her chainmail. He recognizes her as one of the few of Fergus's soldiers who did not accompany him on his scouting mission into the Wilds. To his right is a man who was injured in the last skirmish the Fereldan army had with the darkspawn. He can barely stand and his face is pale with pain and fear, but stand he does because his king and country demand it. Cailan glances about, smiling with a sunny, glowing confidence he does not feel. Everyone is so frightened; so weary and worn out. Cailan feels like a hollow shell, as weary and worn as everyone else, and yet they look to him so he keeps his expression as bright as his armor.

The archers only picked off a relative few of the darkspawn horde; the icy rain put out some of the flaming arrows mid-flight. The regiment of kaddis-painted Mabari hounds rushed the first lines while their handlers looked on, faces twisted in masks of grief because they knew their beloved friends would not return. Cailan wishes he too could let his face twist, so he could show his pain. He stands on a precarious precipice and watches everything he loves and cares about as it falls apart. And he must be the good king and pretend it does not bother him. He recalls his father telling him, many years ago, that there would be times it felt like he was losing part of his soul.

This is such a time.

Cailan looks around at so many familiar liveries, at the pale faces and clenched jaws, and knows he has condemned these men and women to death. Inside he is screaming. Cailan turns to Duncan. The Warden-Commander's dark eyes are hard to read, but his tension cannot be ignored. He doesn't even have his weapons drawn. "There are so many," Cailan says quietly.

"The plan will work, your Majesty," Duncan says.

Cailan nods. He turns to see the Teyrn's silhouette on the cliff above, standing out against the flashes of lightning. He thinks it will work if Alistair and Fianna light the signal fire in time. He is afraid something has happened and his plan to keep his brother safe has backfired. _I only wanted to protect him, do for him what our father could not,_ he thinks. He shivers within his armor. He looks toward where the Tower if Ishal would be; he knows he would see the beacon, were it lit.

He turns to Duncan, his light blue eyes fierce. "Of course it will," he says. "The Blight ends here." The men and women around him manage feeble smiles for their confident king. Cailan favors them with a beaming grin while the screaming inside his head grows ever louder. His weariness settles into his bones. He was up most of the night with Alistair and Fianna. Of course, keeping up the front of unshakable confidence is just as exhausting.

He turns his eyes up again as the cold rain lashes against his face and plasters his pale hair to his scalp. The droplets make angry ting-ting sounds off his plate armor. No beacon. He hopes he has not sentenced Alistair to death. He's been obsessed with learning more about his brother for over a decade; it would be nothing short of ironic for today to end with Alistair dead.

He turns to the oncoming horde. He can see the grotesque faces now, and smell the darkness and squalor rolling off the enemy. His grip tightens on the hilt of his greatsword. _Please don't fail me now,_ he thinks.

The air is full of smoke and flame as the front lines charge forward to meet their enemy. Swords ring out, metal sparking on metal. Cailan finds the noise deafening, but is glad of it because he cannot hear himself think. All the anger that has built up over the years pours into his veins, making his blood boil. He lifts his sword over his head and lunges forward, swinging the blade and decapitating a darkspawn bearing down upon him. Hot black blood splatters his face and his armor but the cold rain washes it all away almost immediately. Even as he swings his sword he wants to laugh.

But the rain cannot wash away the bodies that fall around him, nor can it penetrate his armor or his skin and wash away the mounting guilt and grief. _Maker forgive me,_ he thinks as he swings and stabs, relying on muscle memory to carry him through the battle. He risks turning to look up, and nearly bursts into tears of relief: the beacon is lit! He's never seen anything more beautiful than the red-orange ball of flames against the angry gray sky. His heart swells with pride because Alistair did this. All that remains is to hold back the tide darkspawn until Loghain's forces can flank them.

Cailan scans the overlook, but he does not see Loghain's form standing on the ledge, daring the storm to defy him. He looks all around him and sees his own forces fighting and falling and dying horrible deaths, bodies trampled under heavy darkspawn feet, and there is no indication that Loghain's regiments are coming. "Damn you, Loghain," he mutters. "Where are you?"

He catches sight of Duncan, who meets his eyes. _What's going on?_ That glance seems to ask, and all Cailan can give is a helpless shrug. He would like to know what's going on, himself. He listens, but hears nothing other than the clanging of metal and the screams of the dying. He has the sinking feeling that Loghain is not coming. The beacon burns at the edge of his vision like a cruel joke. The world goes mad around him.

"King Cailan!" Duncan's voice carries over the din. Cailan looks over at his father's old friend, who is staring over his shoulder. Cailan balances his sword in his hands again and whirls around as a mountain of stinking flesh bears down upon him.

He's read about ogres before, but never thought he'd see one. Never thought one would reach down and pick him up the way a child would pick up a ragdoll. Cailan loses his grip on his sword. His golden-greaved feet dangle at least ten feet over the ground. The huge hand around his midsection clutches him tightly, and no matter how hard he wriggles there's nothing that will loosen that grip.

He relaxes even as the battle swells around him. Dimly he hears Duncan screaming his name. He faces the ogre. All the anger seeps out until he is calm and still. He doesn't look at the ugly face before him. He looks toward the beacon and knows his brother is safe. And if Alistair is safe, then maybe Ferelden will have a chance.

The ogre roars, splattering Cailan's face with slimy saliva and assaulting him with hot breath that reeks of rot. Not even the rain can rinse that away. Cailan hears a creaking noise that sounds curiously like armor twisting. The ogre's fist clenches more tightly about him.

His chest tightens. There is pain. Then the sound of crushing metal and snapping bone, and Cailan cannot breathe. He cannot see through the waves of red and gray assaulting his vision. He thinks about his mother, who fought to free Ferelden and died before he could really know her. Thinks of his father, who sacrificed parts of his soul to fix the country he loved and called home. Thinks about the wife he drifted away from, about how he thought he'd try to fix their marriage when this was all over. Thinks of the brother he could have known if he had more time.

The ogre flings Cailan's crushed and broken body through the air. He lands in a crumpled heap, glazed eyes turned, unblinking, toward the violently stormy sky. His face is finally the mask of pain and grief he hid so well from everyone around him.

The beacon burns pointlessly as the Blight begins.


	27. Epilogue: In Between

**Author's Note: **This is the ending Cailan deserves. The title comes from the Linkin Park song of the same name. I heard it and realized just how much the lyrics apply to Cailan: "Somehow I got caught up in between my pride and my promise; between my lies and how the truth gets in the way. The things I want to say to you get lost before they come." This whole tale has been about Cailan being caught in between his pride and his promises, and between the lies and his search for the truth. He's come a very long way since the spry 14-year-old prince who snuck into the Mabari kennel, and it has been very enlightening working with him.

I've chosen to post this epilogue today, because it marks two weeks until the start of NaNoWriMo, during which I will write my AU fic that has a... well, not happy, but less dead ending for Cailan. I want to thank EVERYONE who took the time to read and review and follow Cailan as he grew up, and supported me in my writing. The support means so much and I definitely value the fact you took your time to read and review. I can't thank you enough. And now, the conclusion to _Sneaking..._

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><p><em>Epilogue: In Between<em>

It was the palace throne room, but faded, like a painting that had had the color leeched out of it by too much sunlight. Hazy half-light slanted through the high windows, and yet nothing cast a shadow. The light passed through it as if the building itself were little more than a ghost. And yet the dais he sat on felt solid enough.

"It is the Fade, brother," said the man sitting next to him, and he jumped. The man hadn't been there a moment before, but sat on the steps as casual and relaxed as if he'd been there right along. "Don't over think it. You'll only end up confused. I know I was."

The man wore his flaxen hair about his shoulders and was dressed in a loose, cream-colored linen shirt and soft spun tan breeches. He was barefoot. "I never liked the golden armor, you know," he said, taking in his own appearance. "It looked fabulous, but it was hideously clunky." He looked over. "I think it fits you better, Alistair."

Alistair expected the usual warmth of a blush in his cheeks, embarrassed by Cailan's compliment. But there was nothing. Ah, right. Fade. He quickly glanced down to make certain he was wearing more than his smallclothes. When his dreams dipped into his insecurities about his reign as king, he tended to be dressed in the bare minimum, if in _anything_ at all. He exhaled in relief, because he was dressed much the same as his dead older brother. Wait.

"You're dead," Alistair said slowly, hoping he didn't offend the ex-king.

"And I was given proper funeral rites," Cailan added with his characteristic grin. "But this is the Fade, Alistair. Just go with it."

"The way you went with it at Ostagar?" Alistair asked, figuring he couldn't offend the dead too badly. He regretted the words when he saw Cailan's sunny face fall, and felt the light in the room dim, but they were words he'd been thinking since the day he'd stood before the Landsmeet and had been declared King of Ferelden. And had been utterly terrified by the prospect.

"You resent me for that," Cailan said, and when he smiled at Alistair's embarrassed surprise, it was a sad smile. His blue eyes, normally so bright and confident, were as dull as the room in which they sat. "I made a mistake," he said after a moment of silence so complete it nearly deafened Alistair. Cailan leaned back against the steps and stared at the ceiling, his hair brushing the ground. "But I wasn't afraid," he added. "I knew as soon as I saw the horde that it was a mistake, but by then we were committed."

"You were too caught up in glory to retreat," Alistair accused.

"Maybe," Cailan said, the admission catching Alistair off guard. "I suppose I was foolish to trust a relative fraction of Grey Wardens. I suppose I should have waited for Uncle Eamon's forces. And I should have listened to Loghain," he said. He glanced over at his younger brother. "But if I'd done any of that, you wouldn't be king, now. And we'd never be here."

"Of course we wouldn't. You'd be alive."

Cailan shook his head. "No, I mean here. In the palace, together, as brothers."

Alistair leaned back on his elbows, mimicking Cailan's pose. "Could we ever have been brothers? I mean, really? Would you have wanted the competition for your throne?"

"I never saw you as competition, and not because you were another heir," Cailan said, sliding closer to Alistair and tactfully avoiding use of the word 'bastard'. "Those times I met you when you were young there were things that needed to be said and should have been said, but I couldn't. I used to blame it on the obligations of nobility," he said with a snort that Alistair couldn't help but find funny. "Now, I think I was afraid."

Alistair raised his eyebrows. "My fearless, glory-blinded older brother, afraid?"

Cailan nodded with a slight smile on his face, but his pale eyes sad. "First I was afraid of our father. When I was pretty certain you and I were related I called him out on it and we had a colossal row." His smile grew at the memory, though his eyes still looked haunted. "He said he'd never expected things with you to go the way they did, and by the time everything had happened it was too late to change what had been set in motion."

"You mean I got shipped off to the Chantry."

"Yes. He died not long after he and I fought; I thanked the Maker every day I'd swallowed my pride and apologized for that." Cailan drew himself upright and hugged his knees to his chest as if he were a small child, and not the perpetual twenty-something young man. "Loghain pushed for the marriage to Anora shortly after the coronation, and then I was afraid of them. Can you imagine, afraid of my own wife?"

Alistair grinned in spite of himself. "That, Cailan, I _can_ imagine," he said. "Fianna is lovely, but Andraste's arse, _she killed an Archdemon!"_

The brothers' laughter echoed through the Fade-palace. "I once tried to tell Anora about you," Cailan confided, and his glance over at his younger brother was almost shy. "I thought the truth would set me free. All it did was make her accuse the crown prince of treason." He sighed. "I think the way I handled the whole business was just the first in a long line of mistakes I made as king."

"You were a good man who hoped for too much and died too young," Alistair said, reaching over to clap his dead brother's shoulder. "You have… had so much potential, if only you hadn't died when you did."

Cailan reached up and patted Alistair's hand. "That means a lot, coming from you." He took in Alistair's confused expression. "I'm sure everyone remembers me as the foolhardy child king playing at war," he said with a sigh. "Not that any of that matters here." He gestured around the colorless palace.

"No, not everyone," Alistair said. "You did what you thought you had to do. You made a mistake, but you stood your ground, faced it, and paid for it with your life. That's the least foolish thing I can think of." He looked away. "That's why I had to go back to Ostagar. And why I had to give you rites. It was the right thing to do."

"And for that, I thank you," Cailan said. He rose to his feet and stretched, the loose sleeves of his shirt billowing in an unseen, unfelt breeze, and his long hair settling on his shoulders and glancing in the sun like strands of restless gossamers. "I'm glad we had this talk, brother."

"As am I… brother."

"I wish we'd been able to know one another better in life," Cailan said wistfully, searching Alistair's face. "I think we would have liked being brothers."

Alistair tried to quell the lump in his throat. He stood, realizing he was taller than his older brother, and then slouched, which made Cailan chuckle. "I think so, too," Alistair confessed.

The light in the room was growing brighter, and Cailan reveled in it, shining like a sunbeam. Some color seeped back into his face and his eyes were piercingly bright, sky blue. "Alistair," he said, his voice sounding as if it were coming from far away. "Father would be proud of you. I think he always was. I know I was, even if I could never show it."

Alistair watched the Fade evaporate into a mist around him. "Cailan!" he called. His brother's form wavered and remained before him, though it was fuzzy. "Why did you come back?"

"To tell you what you needed to hear," Cailan said, voice echoing more in Alistair's mind than in his ears.

His brother's form dissipated, yet Alistair still had to know for certain. "How did you come back across the Veil?" he yelled.

Cailan's ghostly voice was a whisper that Alistair knew would have been said with a smirk.

"_Sneaking."_


End file.
